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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28038309">in plaid instead of rhinestone</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChickWithThePurpleGuitar/pseuds/ChickWithThePurpleGuitar'>ChickWithThePurpleGuitar</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Actor Castiel, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe- Broadway/Theatre, Angels in America: Parts One and Two, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Cas (affectionate), Castiel is a chosen stage name because I refuse to give human Cas the last name Novak, Castiel/Meg Masters but it's mostly a PR stunt don't worry, Flashbacks, It's A Wonderful Life (Radio Play), It's a Wonderful Life (movie) Parallels, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Lovers to enemies to lovers, M/M, Meg (derogatory), Multi, Parallel Timelines-- Past and Present, Techie Dean Winchester, The trench coat is a character, Trench coat vs. overcoat discourse, Wait till you see what Cas's legal name is, non-linear timeline</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:15:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>34,278</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28038309</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChickWithThePurpleGuitar/pseuds/ChickWithThePurpleGuitar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He'll do what work he can today, help get the set built because he told Benny he would, maybe give Jody Mills a hand in finding another replacement technical director. But after that, he can't stay.</p><p>Dean Winchester has one condition when it comes to working in New York theatre.</p><p>He'll only do a show if Castiel doesn't.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester-- Former, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester-- Former</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_winchesters_sonicing_in_deerstalkers/gifts">The_winchesters_sonicing_in_deerstalkers</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>In the midst of all the chaos of Supernatural Season 16, I offered to write my friend B a Destiel fic as her Christmas present. She asked for a Broadway/Theatre AU, where Dean and Cas had some kind of rivals/enemies-to-lovers dynamic, with angst as long as there was a happy ending. So I ran with that.</p><p>Also, I have a lot of opinions about Cas's name in fics where he's not an angel. Just know that those opinions will be featured throughout this fic. No Castiel Novak here. Hope you all enjoy. Merry Christmas, B.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The theater is already thrumming with distant activity when Dean slips through the stage door. He pauses in the hallway leading up to the dressing rooms and just breathes it all in for a moment. It’s his favorite smell, a theater in the early days, before the scents of sawdust and metal have been overpowered by hairspray and sweat. It’s even more prevalent in places like this, the old brick buildings uptown where the actors rehearse and Dean and his crew put the set together before they move it all down to Broadway. He loves the atmosphere of small theater buildings, especially ones untainted by an audience. They make him forget he lives in New York City for a minute or two. They remind him of his old community theatre days back in Lawrence.</p><p>Of course, they make him sad for pretty much the same reason.</p><p>Dean hefts his duffle bag higher on his shoulder and sets off down the hall, following the paper signs posted on the walls to the scene shop. He wishes he were working in a theater he’s more familiar with, but he hasn’t actually tech directed a show by himself since moving to New York, so it’s not like he got much of a say in the matter. Someday, he’ll have worked his way up in the industry enough to set up his own shop in a theater like this, and the shows will start coming to him instead of the other way around. Until then, he’ll have to take what he can get.</p><p>Technically, this show came to him. But only because the TD that’s usually in-residence here fell off the catwalks and broke both his legs, and Dean knows the stage manager.</p><p>He passes by the director’s office on his way to the scene shop and pauses in the open doorway to rap his knuckles against the wood. A short-haired woman in a puffy leather jacket spins around in her chair at the desk and gives him a skeptical look like she doesn’t know who he is but she’s certain he’s not supposed to be there.</p><p>But then, before he can introduce or explain himself, she points a finger at him and guesses, “Winchester.”</p><p>“Yes, ma’am,” Dean confirms, trying for a charming smile as he adjusts the strap of his duffle again and sticks a hand out. “Dean.”</p><p>“Jody Mills. I’m the director of this thing.” She leans forward in her swivel chair and shakes his hand without bothering to stand up. “Sorry we couldn’t get you in on the production meetings yet; these last-minute changes, you know how things are.”</p><p>“Yeah, of course, no problem. I got the notes from Benny, so I’m ready to get started if that’s good with you.”</p><p>“Be my guest; your team’s waiting for you.” She gestures in the direction he’d been heading. “Benny’s in the rehearsal room while the cast warms up, if you need anything.”</p><p>Dean’s nerves spike. “Oh. I. I didn’t realize you’d auditioned already.” Usually, he insists on looking over a cast list before he signs on with new projects this far along. It’s his one condition, and he’s turned down better jobs than this cause he saw a certain name on that list. Benny should know that. Why hadn’t he said anything?</p><p>Jody rolls her eyes, oblivious to his minor distress. “It was less auditioning and more begging of agents than I would’ve liked. Show like this, you need the big names just to get butts in seats, you know? I’ll have Benny send you the list.”</p><p>She turns back to her desk, effectively dismissing Dean. He lifts a hand in a halfhearted wave he knows she can’t see and backs out of the office, continuing towards the shop even as his head starts to spin a little.</p><p><em> Big names, </em> Jody had said. So of course, a certain someone is already on his mind when he makes a wrong turn and ends up passing by the rehearsal room. He realizes his mistake fairly quickly and starts to turn back, but not before he catches a glimpse of the coat rack standing by the door, where the actors have left their outdoor clothes. </p><p>Hanging limply on the front of the rack is a tan trench coat, sloppy and wrinkled from years of wear. It would probably be unassuming to anyone else, with its coffee-stained cuffs and frayed belt stretching halfway to the floor, especially amid all the leather jackets and fancy winter coats that probably cost more than all of Dean’s belongings put together. But it catches his eye immediately, and suddenly he can’t stop staring at it.</p><p>Because that’s not just any trench coat. </p><p><em> Technically, it’s an overcoat, </em> he hears a gruff voice say in the back of his mind, and then he winces and glances frantically around to make sure he’s just imagined it.</p><p>His heart is beating a little faster than normal. His palms are sweating. He tries to convince himself that he’s wrong, that it’s just been a long time since he saw <em> that particular trench coat </em> up close and personal and so he’s projecting his memory of it onto this other, totally unrelated trench coat. Overcoat. Whatever. </p><p>But then, before he can stop himself, he drops his duffle bag at his feet, crosses the hall to the coat rack, and peels back the coat’s collar to check the tag. And sure enough, scrawled across the fabric in thick black sharpie, are the letters <em> DTK </em> , but they’re crossed out with a bright gold pen and above them is written <em> Cas </em> in a smaller, tighter handwriting.</p><p>Dean’s handwriting.</p><p>His hand closes over the collar in a fist, crumpling the tag and inadvertently pulling the coat off its hook. He lets go and watches dumbly as it falls and settles into a pool of fabric on the floor. Then he stumbles back a few steps and only turns away from the fallen trench coat when he almost trips backwards over his duffle. He scrambles to pick it up and then hurries away from the rehearsal room and the sound of actors starting up muted conversations post-warm up, knowing that the longer he hangs around, the more likely he’ll be to pick out one specific voice from the crowd. He doesn’t even think to leave the theater altogether, just continues following the signs until he finds the scene shop. He doesn’t care where he goes, just so long as he gets away from that coat and any chance of running into its owner.</p><p>He’ll do what work he can today, help get the set built because he told Benny he would, maybe give Jody Mills a hand in finding another replacement technical director. But after that, he can’t stay.</p><p>Dean Winchester has <em> one </em> condition when it comes to working in New York theatre.</p><p>He’ll only do a show if Castiel doesn’t.</p><hr/><p>“Hey there, brother, how’s it coming along?”</p><p>Dean looks up from the plank of wood he’s been drilling into place and raises his safety goggles to glare across the scene shop at Benny. The last few hours have been a much appreciated blur of endless work. It’s a pretty good crew he’s been given: the electrical team is all women, which he would’ve made a <em> thing </em> about ten years ago before he took a gender studies class at KU and learned how not to be a dick, and they’re all beyond competent. He spent most of the morning in talks with the scenic designer, an older no-nonsense kind of woman named Ellen who had a lot of strong opinions about the lack of appreciation for period-appropriate molding. She called him “boy” and offered him a beer on their lunch break and reminded him just enough of his old mentor Bobby that he thought they would either get along really well or want to kill each other.</p><p>After lunch he and the carpentry crew started work on some of the bigger sets that will stay on stage while smaller pieces fly in and out, and he’s been lost in the bustle of that for the last few hours, letting himself pretend for as long as he can that he’s not actively and aggressively avoiding someone who’s rehearsing only a few doors down. Letting himself forget that he has to quit at the end of the day, because if he keeps on this job much longer, the aforementioned active and aggressive avoiding will get harder and harder to maintain.</p><p>But the sudden entrance of the bastard traitor who got him this job in the first place is a pretty damn good reminder.</p><p>Dean points his drill at Benny in as threatening a manner as he can manage and shouts across the shop, “What the hell is wrong with you?”</p><p>He realizes, belatedly, that that might not be the best way to start this conversation in a public space, as the sounds of drills and hammers slow to an awkward standstill around them. He looks around, sees his stagehands all staring at him, and slowly lowers his power drill. </p><p>Dean clears his throat. “Give us a minute, guys,” he says. “Uh, take five or whatever.”</p><p>A few of them exchange pointed glances, and some are more hesitant to put down their tools than others (Jo and Charlie, for example, Dean notices, seem like exactly the type to risk a scolding if it means they can get in on some of the drama), but eventually, the scene shop clears out until it’s just Dean, crouched behind a half-built wall, and Benny Lafitte, clipboard in hand, hovering nervously in the doorway.</p><p>Dean gets to his feet—his knees protest more than he would like—and spreads his hands. “Seriously, dude. <em> Castiel? </em>”</p><p>To his credit, Benny flinches. “I don’t know what to tell you, brother,” he says, clearly trying for casual as he leans one shoulder against the doorframe; it doesn’t quite work. “We needed a TD last minute, and you were the best man for the job.”</p><p>“Yeah, bullshit.” Dean takes a few steps closer, lowering his voice so they won’t be overheard by his nosy stagehands through the walls. “Benny, man, you know I can’t work with him.”</p><p>“Yeah, and I know why, too,” his friend points out. “And frankly, I think it’s a dumbass reason. So what, you hooked up a few years back? So did we, and I don’t see that stopping us.”</p><p>Dean grits his teeth through a heated blush. “No. You don’t understand. Cas and I—it’s not just—Look, I just can’t do it, all right? I’ll finish up today, but then you’re gonna have to find someone else. I’m sorry.”</p><p>He turns away from Benny, running a hand through his hair. He closes his eyes, and then immediately opens them again when he finds the image of that damn trench coat painted behind his eyelids.</p><p>“Dean,” Benny says after a moment or two of tense silence. His tone makes Dean sigh. Benny only says his name like that—not brother, but <em> Dean </em> , all low and soft like it’s imperative that the name’s every sound be individually spoken—when he’s totally serious about something. Dean reluctantly turns back to face him. “You know I wouldn’t ask you for this if I didn’t need to,” Benny continues. “But this is my first paid gig, up at the top, you know? If this show doesn’t sell, I’m on a bus back to Louisiana or I’m out on the street. And a show like this—hell, man, we’re doing fucking <em> Angels in America. </em> It’s eight and a half fucking hours of depressing shit where everyone dies of AIDS. The <em> only </em>way this thing sells is through star power.”</p><p>“Yeah, and you got your star power,” Dean cuts in. “So what the hell do you need me for?”</p><p>“No, Dean, you don’t get it. The producers wanted Meg Masters, you understand? But Meg don’t do straight plays these days unless her boytoy can get in on the fun.” Dean can’t help but wince at the word <em> boytoy </em> , but he doesn’t interrupt. “And Castiel <em> asked </em> for <em> you. </em>”</p><p>Well, fuck if Dean knows how to feel about that.</p><p>He finishes the conversation without even really hearing it, telling Benny he’ll think about it but he’s not making any promises, and then he throws himself back into his work the second Benny heads back to rehearsal. He ignores the questions the stagehands ask him, and tries to ignore the concerned and curious looks they give him, and he only almost drills a screw into his hand instead of into wood twice in four more hours, which he thinks is a pretty good record considering the circumstances.</p><p>He still doesn’t know what he’s going to do by the time he’s the only one left in the scene shop, hours after Ellen and Benny and his crew of stagehands have all gone home. He tosses his crescent wrench, the one Sammy got him as a going away present with their initials scratched into the handle, back into his duffle and lifts the strap over his shoulder as he absentmindedly checks his phone for the time. It’s almost one in the morning, he notes with surprise. The trains will stop running soon, but his apartment’s only twenty blocks uptown, and he honestly doesn’t mind the walk.</p><p>At least the cold and the strain on his tired legs will give him something to think about other than <em> Castiel asked for you. </em></p><p>The rest of the theater is dark and gloomy as Dean sets up the ghost light and makes his way through the abandoned halls back towards the stage door, so he retraces his steps from this morning mostly by memory. The coat rack outside the rehearsal room is empty, though that’s not surprising. The only reason he stayed this late in the first place was so the actors would have all left already.</p><p>He pushes the door open and slips out onto the sidewalk, tilting his head back slightly to take in the cold stiff air of a New York night. He starts to turn down the street towards sixth avenue, but suddenly a voice speaks from the darkness behind him, low and husky and so painfully familiar it sends a shiver down Dean’s spine and makes him freeze in his tracks.</p><p>“Hello, Dean.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've decided the odd chapters of this fic are gonna be in present tense, following the Angels in America timeline, and the even chapters are gonna be in past tense, detailing the backstory of Dean and Cas's relationship. Hopefully that won't get too confusing. But essentially, this chapter is entirely in flashback. I hope you enjoy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dean Winchester was not what you would call a “theatre kid.” He grew up surrounded by cars and guns and classic rock, and he spent most of his after-school time trying to keep his kid brother from realizing their dad kinda sucked. He wasn’t even really aware that theatre was a viable art form until Sam’s sixth grade class did <em> Our Town, </em> which should not have been as moving as it was. By that point, their dad had opened a mechanic shop on the outskirts of Lawrence and made Sam and Dean work the registers twice a week, and it wasn’t like Dean had anything much better to do during his shifts than read old paperbacks of plays he stole from the school library.</p><p>It wasn’t until their high school did <em> Oklahoma! </em> a few years later that Dean learned he could merge his newfound interest in theatre and his talent for welding and hammering shit, and even that was only because Sammy came home waving a “Join the Stage Crew to get out of your P.E. requirement” flyer in his face. And then all of a sudden, Dean was working early morning shifts at the garage so he could build sets after school and asking his fourteen-year-old brother to help him write his college essays to theatre schools he could never tell his dad he’d applied to.</p><p>And then all of a sudden, his dad got sick and couldn’t work, and the bills kept piling up, and Sammy was getting to be more and more of a snot-nosed genius every day; so it didn’t matter how happy Dean felt driving nails into plywood, lining up a perfectly square corner for a table, or seeing a new world take shape below him as he delicately pulled a light into focus, because there was no way they could afford out-of-state tuition for both of them, on top of all the other shit they were going through, and if one of the Winchester brothers deserved to get out of fuck-all, Kansas, it sure as hell wasn’t Dean.</p><p>So he shoved his acceptance letter to Elon’s famed Theatrical Design and Technology program in a drawer and took over his dad’s shifts at the garage while he took every Theatre Design class he could fit into his schedule at KU and a few business classes on the side just to be safe. John Winchester passed the same day Sam got a full ride to Stanford. Dean was running lights for Rent when the call came in, and the second the house lights came back up after bows, he locked the door to the booth and cried.</p><p>“I gotta get out of here, Dean,” Sam said to him on the phone late that night, when Dean called from the hospital to give him the news. “I can’t stay in Lawrence forever.”</p><p>Dean couldn’t stay in Lawrence forever, either, but his dad had left him too much debt and too many loyal customers to justify closing down the Auto Shop. And either way, he’d never been very good at telling his little brother no.</p><p>So, Sam graduated high school with a 4.0 and a convenient collection of sob stories and took the first plane out to California. Dean spent his senior year taking more business classes than theatre ones just to keep his goddamned family business afloat. He spent every waking minute he wasn’t at school or in the scene shop fixing cars and pretending to understand his dad’s confusing as hell filing system, and then he graduated college with a slightly-less-than 4.0 and an increased sense of dread about his future and came home from the garage every night to an empty house that had been bought thirty years ago for a family of four.</p><p>“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” he said to Sam on the phone one night, a few months in, after he’d drunk a bottle and a half of bourbon and cried over the cast album to West Side Story. “I don’t even know who I am anymore. I feel like I’m turning into Dad. I feel like I died when he did.”</p><p>“Just a few more years,” Sam told him. “Please, Dean, just hang on until I graduate, and then I’ll come back and watch the shop for a few years, and you can have your turn getting out. It’s the least you deserve.”</p><p>The day Dean met Castiel, he hadn’t seen his brother in person in almost three years (because Sam took classes over break like the nerd he was and Dean was a workaholic who’d never taken a vacation in his life) and he hadn’t done anything related to theatre in longer. The only thing that kept him going day after day was the knowledge that as soon as Sam finished school, Dean could get out of here. Do anything else with his life. He wasn’t sure where or what yet. But he knew he wanted to use his beat up kit of inherited tools on something other than an engine again. He wanted to build something from scratch with his own two hands. He wanted to get sawdust in his hair and paint on his jeans instead of grease and oil everywhere. He wanted to help create a world that was better than the one he lived in.</p><p>It was a Saturday in mid-November, early enough in the morning that the garage was open but there were no customers, so Dean was buried under the hood of his own car when the bell over the front door jangled as someone walked in. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” he called, then shut the hood and turned his attention back to his job.</p><p>“You Dean Winchester?” the man who’d come in said when Dean asked how he could help him. He was an older fellow, with a graying beard and a trucker’s cap; Dean vaguely recognized him from around town, but not enough to know him by name.</p><p>“Yes, sir,” he said, wiping his hands on a spare rag that didn’t make them much cleaner and then sticking his hand out.</p><p>“Bobby Singer,” the man introduced himself without shaking Dean’s hand. “I knew your dad. He was kind of a dick.”</p><p>It had been long enough that Dean could probably agree with that without feeling too terrible about it, but he just tried for a dry chuckle and left it at that. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Singer?” he said again.</p><p>“Word around town is you’re into theatre, boy.”</p><p>Dean automatically tensed. It wasn’t like his field of study was exactly a secret; Lawrence was far from a small town, but his little area of it was close-knit enough for news to travel fast. But he’d also learned from firsthand experience not to offer up personal information about himself to people he didn’t know, especially people like Bobby Singer who were clearly born and bred Midwesterners and from a generation that might have something to say about a guy like Dean going to school to work on musicals, even if the work he was doing was backstage.</p><p>But Dean had also made a promise to himself, the day he realized he’d let his dad die without ever knowing that Dean might not marry a woman, that he was never again going to lie to anyone about who he was. So, he straightened up his shoulders and said, “Yes, sir. University of Kansas; I got a degree in design. Uh, theatre design,” he added after a moment.</p><p>“Well, I didn’t think you meant fashion, boy.”</p><p>Dean wasn’t sure what kind of response he’d been expecting from this Mr. Singer (though he’d been in the process of mentally locating the nearest tool he could use as a weapon, just in case he ended up being the victim of a hate crime), but it definitely wasn’t for the man to shove a flyer in his face and say, “Anyway, I run a community theatre over in Clinton; we’re doing a radio play of <em> It’s a Wonderful Life </em> for the holidays and we need more people on the crew. What did you work at school? Carp? Lights?”</p><p>Dean blinked, a little slow on the uptake. “Uh, both,” he managed a little dumbly. “And sound, costumes even. I, uh, did a little bit of everything.”</p><p>“And what time are you off here today?”</p><p>“I can be whenever; I kind of own the place.”</p><p>“Great. Then I’ll see you at three.”</p><p>Bobby turned around and left without another word, leaving Dean holding a crumpled advertisement and wondering what exactly he’d just agreed to. He considered tossing out the flyer and pretending that weird conversation had never happened. But he couldn’t deny he’d been longing for the day he could get back into tech again, and this did sort of seem like a sign from God or whatever. An early Christmas miracle, you could say.</p><p>So, against his better judgment, he found himself closing the garage up early and heading across county lines to sign up for the stage crew for <em> It’s a Wonderful Life. </em> Bobby Singer was much more friendly on his own turf; he gave Dean an emergency contact sheet to fill out and a building schedule to memorize and then sent him off immediately to see what he could get done in a couple hours, thanking him profusely for signing on because apparently he was currently the most qualified guy they had.</p><p>When he passed by the green room on his way out of the theater later that night, there was a man sitting on the couch inside with a big purple book spread open on his lap. Dean wasn’t sure what it was about him that caught his eye, exactly, but once he noticed him, he found himself unable to look away. Maybe it was the way he sat on the couch, neat and straight-backed like he was afraid too much movement would break it. Maybe it was his shiny black loafers, or his crooked blue tie, or his rumpled beige trench coat that looked about a size and a half too big for him. Maybe it was the book he was reading, that made him look even smaller, though he was probably only an inch or two shorter than Dean. </p><p>Most likely, it was the intensely bright blue eyes that locked on him when the man raised his head and noticed Dean watching him through the window. Before he could stop himself, Dean pushed open the green room door and stuck his head in. “Hey, uh, we just finished over in the theater. I don’t know if you were. Waiting for someone, or…”</p><p>He trailed off, his excuse for staring faltering as the man continued to regard him with no less intensity. “Not for someone,” he said, and the rough baritone of his voice surprised Dean. It didn’t seem to fit with his body at all. “Just waiting.”</p><p>Dean nodded, trying not to show how awkward he felt. He could just leave, he knew. There was no legitimate reason why he needed to be talking to this man he’d never met, and it wasn’t like their conversation so far had really been going anywhere. But something about this man intrigued him. Made him want to stay. “Are you in the show?” Dean asked, still sort of hovering in the open doorway. He leaned his hip against the doorframe to at least try for a casual stance. </p><p>The other man nodded. “I play Clarence,” he said simply. Dean shrugged helplessly; despite his brother’s best efforts, he still hadn’t actually seen <em> It’s a Wonderful Life. </em> Those crazy blue eyes narrowed slightly, and the man tilted his head to one side as if needing to see Dean from a different angle to understand him. “The angel,” he elaborated, not that that helped much more.</p><p>Dean decided to let it go; he was sure he’d see a run of the play at some point as they got closer to tech; he’d figure it out. “Cool, cool. Yeah, I, uh, I’m on the stage crew now, so I’ll be building your sets and stuff. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”</p><p>Clarence the angel nodded, then seemed to decide that was a suitable end to the conversation and turned his attention back to his book. Dean made a face the other man couldn’t see. He took a step or two closer, letting the green room door swing closed behind him, and tried, “So. Whatcha reading?”</p><p>Clarence looked up again and blinked at him in surprise. Dean wasn’t sure if that was surprise that Dean was still standing there or surprise that he’d opted to continue talking to him. Maybe a little bit of both. But he obediently replied, “<em> Finishing the Hat. </em>It’s the collected lyrics of the works of Stephen Sondheim, with attendant comments, principles, heresies, grudges, whines, and anecdotes.” He paused a moment to let that sink in, then added, “From 1954 to 1981. There’s a sequel about his later works.”</p><p>Dean couldn’t help but get a kick out of this guy. It was like he was having a conversation with some sort of alien species who’d never spoken to an actual human before. He found it kind of endearing. “Sounds interesting,” he said with a smile, then crossed the room the rest of the way to the couch and stuck his hand out. “I’m Dean, by the way. Dean Winchester.” The actor gave Dean’s hand a look like it had personally offended him. Before Dean could consider pulling it back, though, he took it and gave it a surprisingly firm shake. Dean then waited expectantly for him to give his own name, but the man just frowned, not necessarily at Dean, but in Dean’s general direction. “And… you are…?” he prompted gently just as the silence was beginning to get a little too awkward for his liking.</p><p>The frown deepened, and Dean somehow got the sense that the guy was hesitating giving his name out because he <em> didn’t know it </em>, but then a moment later, the man’s expression cleared. He looked up at Dean with those big blue eyes and said, almost reverently, “Castiel.”</p><p>Dean blinked. He wondered briefly if he was being punked. “Castiel,” he repeated. “That’s, uh. That’s a name.” He tried not to say it like a question, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded.</p><p>“A chosen name,” Castiel explained with a serious nod. “A stage name.”</p><p>“Just Castiel, though? No, no last name?”</p><p>“Just Castiel.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, then added, “Like God.”</p><p>“Or Cher,” Dean joked. Castiel gave him another confused little head tilt. “Never mind. Nice to meet you, Castiel.”</p><p>“And you, Dean.”</p><p>Dean wasn’t sure why, but he liked the way Castiel said his name. Like it was important. Like he was important. Deciding he was already way in over his head and there was no point in trying to back out now, Dean flung himself onto the sofa next to Castiel and stretched out one arm across the back of the couch so that it wasn’t quite <em> around </em> Castiel, but would be if he leaned back a few inches. </p><p>Castiel blinked at him again, but didn’t protest, so Dean figured he was all right with the new seating arrangement. Dean knew he should probably be getting home soon, but it wasn’t like there was anyone there waiting for him. And besides, he liked the company he had here now. “So,” he said again, since it didn’t look like Castiel was going to offer up any topics of conversation. “You said you were waiting. What for?”</p><p>Castiel glanced toward the window facing the rest of the theater, then back at Dean. His eyes weren’t even just blue, Dean decided, but <em> cerulean </em>. It was like looking at the sky just as the sun came out after a rainstorm. They narrowed again as he looked at Dean, like Castiel was a scientist analyzing a specimen through a microscope. Dean wouldn’t have thought he’d enjoy being looked at like a specimen, but coming from this strangely ethereal man, he found he didn’t mind it. “Mr. Singer usually lets me stay until he closes at the end of the night. I didn’t have rehearsal today, but I like it here better than I like it at home.”</p><p>Dean could relate to that. “Yeah, me too. My home’s a little too empty for my liking.”</p><p>“My home’s a little too full,” Castiel said bitterly. He finally seemed to actually relax, slumping forward just a bit so that he didn’t look so tense. His shoulders just barely pressed against Dean’s arm.</p><p>“Yeah? You got siblings, Castiel?” Dean winced. “God, that’s a mouthful. I’m gonna call you Cas. You got siblings, Cas?”</p><p>He shot Dean a look at the nickname, but it wasn’t an angry one so Dean figured he was good to keep up with it. Honestly, he figured Cas appreciated the stage name he’d chosen for himself being given the same friendly treatment a real name would. “I’m the youngest of five,” he explained. “I have three brothers and a sister. And I still live at home. So my house is always very full and very loud. I dislike it strongly.”<br/>Dean bit back a laugh, fully aware that it really wasn’t funny. “I’m sorry to hear that. It’s just me and my little brother now, but he’s off at genius school in California, so I’m usually alone in this big, empty house.” He started to say something else, thought better of it, then remembered he had literally nothing to lose and continued, “You should come over sometime. Fix both our problems.”</p><p>Cas looked at him with those big blue eyes again and gave a soft smile that looked somehow odd and simultaneously perfect on his usually solemn face. “I’d like that very much.”</p><p>A wide grin spread across Dean’s face. He clapped a hand jovially on Cas’s shoulder and then forced himself to stand up before he could do something stupid like kiss this weird guy he’d just met. “Great. I should get going, but, uh. I’ll see you around, Cas.”</p><p>Cas’s eye contact was so intense and <em> so, so blue </em> that Dean almost didn’t think it would be possible to look away. “I’ll see you around, Dean.” He said it like a promise. Or like a prayer.</p><p>Dean left the theater that night feeling like he was walking on air. But he wasn’t sure if it was because he’d finally gotten another chance to do the work he wanted to again, or because he might be just a little bit in love.</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the long wait, folks. But I've already got the next few chapters written, so I'll try to update once a week or so for the next while. Thanks to everyone who's been reading, and especially to the_winchesters_sonicing_in_deerstalkers for inspiring this fic and badassmonkeyfriend for her amazing and absolutely necessary editing skills. Hope you all enjoy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hello, Dean.”</p><p>Dean curls his hands into fists around the strap of his duffle bag slung across his shoulder. He briefly considers ignoring the voice behind him and just continuing down the street towards home like he didn’t hear it at all. Knowing Castiel, he might even just let Dean get away with it, for politeness’s sake, if nothing else. Maybe they can avoid an uncomfortable confrontation altogether. And by morning, Dean will be somewhere far, far away.</p><p>But for some reason, he finds he can’t move his feet. It seems he just can’t walk away. Not again. So, Dean takes a deep breath, slowly turns around, and for the first time in almost five years, lays his eyes on Castiel.</p><p>He’s taller, though not by much. He’s grown a beard, which Dean wouldn’t have thought was possible when they were together, and looks ridiculously, <em> unfairly </em> attractive on him. His eyes are still intensely, impossibly blue. Dean knew all this, of course; Castiel’s picture has been plastered all over the tabloids since he started his aggressively public relationship with New York starlet Meg Masters two and a half years ago, so it’s not like Dean expected him to look exactly the same as he did the night they met, in the green room of a community theatre in Lawrence, Kansas. But he’s still dressed in a rumpled suit and a crooked blue tie, and that goddamned trench coat still hangs off of him like a loose second skin. The similarities and differences alike are striking enough to make Dean’s breath catch in his throat.</p><p>“Hey,” he manages, his voice a rough croak. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hey, Cas.”</p><p>Castiel visibly relaxes, a look of stark relief crossing his face before his expression settles back into its usual impassive state. “I didn’t know you’d moved to New York,” he says.</p><p>Dean scoffs out a laugh. Apparently they’re just going to jump right into <em> this </em> conversation at 1:00 in the morning. “Oh, yeah? Cause word on the street is you <em> asked </em>me to work on this show.” He’s taken a step closer without realizing it; he makes an active effort to stop.</p><p>Cas gives him that infuriating little head tilt and a frown he’s oh so famous for and says, “Yes. Well. Before last week, I hadn’t known. I overheard Benny mention you to the producer at auditions. I made a point to recommend your services.”</p><p>“I didn’t think my <em> services </em>were all that memorable to you,” Dean retorts, intentionally misunderstanding Cas’s meaning.</p><p>Cas’s frown only deepens, because of course he doesn’t get the joke. “I meant your. Technical services. In the theater.”</p><p>“Yeah, no, I know what you meant,” Dean snaps. He closes his eyes. He can’t do this. He <em> really </em> can’t do this. Talking to Castiel is like having a conversation with an alien species who’s never spoken to an actual human before and Dean forgot how <em> infuriating </em>it is. “Look. Cas—” he starts to say.</p><p>Castiel raises his chin, showing off that cruelly hot beard, and narrows his eyes at Dean so that some of the blueness of them is obscured. “How long have you lived here in the city?”</p><p>Dean heaves a deep sigh. “Going on two years now,” he admits, and then immediately winces as an open expression of hurt flashes across Castiel’s face. </p><p>“Two years,” he repeats. “I find that surprising, considering we haven’t managed to run into each other until now.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, it’s a big city, Cas. And you’re not exactly hard to avoid.”</p><p>Dean is very much aware that every word out of his mouth is making him sound more like a dick. And he would very much like to stop, but he doesn’t know how. This is one of the many reasons <em> why </em> he’s tried so hard to stay out of Castiel’s awareness for the last couple years. Not just because thinking about him hurts and looking at him makes Dean <em> feel things </em> , but because talking to him—even <em> thinking </em> about talking to him—brings the absolute worst out of Dean. Makes him angry and vindictive, as if everything that went wrong in his life was Castiel’s fault. As if <em> anything </em> that went wrong in his life was Castiel’s fault. </p><p>It’s just been so much easier to scan the tabloids and insist on reading cast lists and create a fake Twitter account just to follow Cas’s black hole of a girlfriend and her daily live tweets about their whereabouts so that Dean can make sure not to get within twenty blocks of anywhere Cas is going to be. Standing here, on a dark street in the middle of the night, facing the only man he’s ever truly loved for the first time in five years, Dean doesn’t know what to do with himself. He doesn’t even know who he is right now.</p><p>He spins around on his heel and starts walking down the street again before he can do anything else stupid. “It’s late, Castiel,” he calls over his shoulder. “We can do this another time.”</p><p>Dean thinks that’s a pretty civil way for him to end the conversation, as far as subtle rejections go, so he’s feeling fairly satisfied with himself as he heads towards his apartment. Now all he has to do is call Jody in the morning to officially turn in his resignation, and he can go back to his regularly scheduled programming of pretending Castiel doesn’t exist. And if the thought of that makes his chest hurt a little bit, well, then, he can chalk that up to the exertion of speed-walking. And if part of him wishes that Cas would call after him, and insist they talk about what happened all those years ago, and maybe even kiss him under the city lights like they’re still living in a Christmas-themed radio play, well, then, clearly that part of him just hasn’t been paying attention.</p><p>He doesn’t hear Cas call after him, which he tries not to feel disappointed about. But he does hear footsteps, a yard or two behind him, following closely but out of sync with his own. He gives them a block or two to make a different turn, if not stop altogether, but they do neither, and finally Dean spins around again and snaps, “Seriously, man? You’re following me?”</p><p>Cas looks up at him in wide-eyed surprise, his hands shoved casually in the pockets of his coat. He blinks, looks around as if just now noticing that they’ve been walking in the same direction since leaving the theater, and then says, “My apartment is also this way.”</p><p>Dean sighs and runs a tired hand across his face. “Right, yeah, of course it is. Okay, fine. But walk <em> next </em> to me, so that you look like a person and not a mugger, all right?” He gets a glimpse of Cas’s confused frown before he turns around and keeps walking again, but a few seconds later, he hears footsteps rushing to catch up to him. And then they’re walking side by side.</p><p>“So,” Dean says a few blocks later, once the awkward silence between them has started to become a little too unbearable and it’s been made clear that Cas’s walk home isn’t going to stop coinciding with Dean’s any time soon. “How’s Meg?”</p><p>Cas looks over at him and narrows his eyes in disapproval. “You know, you don’t have to say her name like it’s a dirty word.”</p><p><em> You’re a dirty word, </em> the childish part of Dean’s brain supplies, but what makes it to his mouth is, “I absolutely do,” which admittedly isn’t much better. “No, really; how is the she-demon?”</p><p>Cas rolls his eyes. “You don’t even know her,” he points out.</p><p>“I know enough.” It’s hard not to, with her every word and action plastered across social media sites and those dumb magazines they sell at the check-out lines of grocery stores. </p><p>If Dean looks over, he knows he’ll see the expression that made him fall in love with Cas in the first place. Furrowed brow, mouth slightly open, eyes steady and intense. He deliberately stares ahead. Six blocks left to walk, fewer if Cas branches off before then. He can make it home, and then he never has to see Castiel in person again. Never has to face those eyes again.</p><p>“Well, you’ll meet her soon enough,” Cas says, “and maybe you’ll change your opinion of her. But if you’re going to be working on this show, you’ll at least have to agree to call her by her name.”</p><p>“I’m not,” he says, aiming for flippant and missing by a good fifty yards.</p><p>Cas scoffs. “Come on, Dean. Don’t you think that’s a little infantile, even for you?” </p><p>“No, Cas, I’m not working on the show,” he barks, more harshly than he’d really intended. “I’m quitting, first thing tomorrow.”</p><p>“What?” Cas stops walking so abruptly that Dean manages to get a few steps ahead before Cas reaches out a gentle hand to stop him. His hand connects with the leather at the left elbow of Dean’s coat, and Dean turns on instinct before thinking he should maybe want to pull away. He looks Cas in the eyes, and finds he can’t look anywhere else. <em> Shit. </em> “Dean. What do you mean, you’re quitting?”</p><p>Dean swallows against a bitter taste in his mouth. “C’mon, Cas, you can’t be <em> that </em>surprised. It’s not like I have a great track record for following through.” </p><p>It’s the closest either of them has come to acknowledging the history between them, and he waits for the look of shock and hurt to spread across Cas’s face. But it doesn’t come. If anything, Cas looks angry, his face all scrunched up, his eyes even more intense than usual, and before Dean really knows what’s happening, Cas has abandoned his grip on Dean’s arm, grabbed him by the shirt instead, and shoved him up against the wall of the nearest building. Dean’s duffle bag hits the ground. His back hits brick hard enough to knock the wind out of him, but he barely registers the pain. Cas is warm, pressed up against him, their faces inches apart. Dean could kiss him. Or punch him. He’s not sure which he wants to do more. This is a dream. This is a nightmare. He needs to be anywhere else. </p><p>“<em> Don’t say that, </em>” Castiel growls. “Don’t act like everything that happened between us was your fault when I’m the one who—”</p><p>He breaks off, and the words he doesn’t say hang heavily in the air between them. They stand there in silence for a few long seconds, Cas pressed against Dean pressed against the wall. Dean’s heart is pounding in his ears, and he feels feverishly warm everywhere Cas’s body is touching him.  Dean’s eyes drop to Cas’s lips. He forces in a few ragged breaths before he manages to find something to say.</p><p>“I don’t want an apology, Cas. And I definitely don’t want to be forgiven. Whatever we used to have is over now. I just want to get back to my own life.”</p><p>Now, there’s the hurt on Cas’s face he’d expected. Cas slowly lets go of Dean’s collar and takes a step back. Dean waits until Cas nods and drops his gaze before Dean picks up his fallen duffle and walks away.</p><p>This time, no one follows.</p><hr/><p>Dean gives up on trying to fall asleep around 3:00. He’s spent the last hour and a half or so staring at the ceiling of his bedroom, debating back and forth with himself over whether the mysterious gray stain in the corner looks more like a rabbit smoking a joint or a mutilated version of his car, all to avoid having to think about the look on Castiel’s face when Dean had walked away from him, or the last words they’d spoken to each other, or how close and kissable Cas’s lips had been. </p><p>He rolls over onto his side and grabs his phone off the nightstand. The stain looks more like his car, he’s decided, and that’s reminded him to check on the current owner of said car, for lack of anything better to do. It’s 2am in Lawrence, but he can’t bring himself to care. If Sam’s asleep, he just won’t pick up. Probably.</p><p>But Sam’s not asleep and answers the call after two and a half rings with the friendly brotherly greeting of, “Why the fuck are you calling me, dude?”</p><p>Dean sits up and reaches over to turn his bedside lamp on. “Wow, Sammy, nice to talk to you, too.”</p><p>“No, seriously; what time is it in New York? Don’t you have work tomorrow?”</p><p>Dean sighs. “Honestly, I don’t know. Was thinking of backing out on this show.”</p><p>“What? Why?” Sam’s voice is loud in his ear, insulted on Dean’s behalf; Dean places the call on speaker and drops his phone on the bed next to him so it’s not so jarring. “Did something happen?”</p><p>“Not something,” Dean says softly. “Someone.”</p><p>Sam is silent for a long moment. And then, “Cas is in the show?”</p><p>“Cas is in the show,” Dean echoes slowly. “Cas <em> specifically </em> asked Benny to hire me to work on the show. Cas waited outside the theater for who knows how many hours to ambush me as soon as I left tonight, and then Cas shoved me against a wall and tried to convince me not to blame myself for our breakup. So, yeah. Not really sure if I can show my face there ever again…”</p><p>“Shit,” Sam says helpfully. He’s quiet another moment, and then he says, “He shoved you against you a wall, huh? Kinky.”</p><p>“Sam, I <em> will </em> hang up.”</p><p>“Sorry, sorry,” he laughs as Dean glares at his phone, hoping his brother can feel the heat of it from 1200 miles away. “But really, Dean, come on. You’ve never quit a show before closing in your life. You’re really gonna give up a job, risk making a bad name for yourself, all because working around—not even necessarily <em> with </em>—your ex is too awkward for you? I mean, I know you and Cas had a rough go of it at the end there, but it’s not like he was abusive.” When Dean doesn’t immediately respond, Sam says, “Dean? He wasn’t abusive, was he?”</p><p>“What? No! This is <em> Cas </em> we’re talking about here. He rescues kittens from trees and wouldn’t let me kill spiders. He’s probably got a charity or two named after him, for god’s sake.” Dean knows he does, no probably about it. He’s had to stop himself from drunk-donating more than a few times.</p><p>“Okay, fair,” Sam relents. “But, I mean, you can’t blame me for asking. You never <em> did </em> actually tell me what happened between you two.”</p><p>God, Dean can’t deal with this. He’d called Sam to <em> stop </em> thinking about Cas. “Yeah, I’m not having this conversation with you, Sammy.”</p><p>“I’m just saying, it might help to talk about your feelings at least a <em> little </em> bit.”</p><p>“Okay, I’m really hanging up now.” He picks up his phone again.</p><p>“Dean, wait. Come on. Don’t go; just let me say one last thing.”</p><p>Dean rolls his eyes. “Fine. What? And know that my finger is three and a half millimeters above the ‘end call’ button, so choose your words wisely.”</p><p>Sam scoffs out a laugh. “I’m just saying, maybe you should take another day or two to think about it before you make any rash decisions. Maybe doing a show with Cas again wouldn’t be the end of the world, you know? I mean, there <em> was </em> a time when you two were friends, remember? Before… whatever the hell happened?”</p><p>“Yeah, no, I remember.” Dean taps a finger thoughtfully against the side of his phone. He can’t help but think back to the warmth of Cas’s body against his, the blue of Cas’s eyes staring right into Dean’s soul. The good times they’d had together, before everything went wrong. “All right, maybe you’ve got a point. Couple more days on the job couldn’t hurt, I guess.”</p><p>“And Dean?” Sammy adds. “Maybe you could also consider, you know, <em> talking </em>to Cas?”</p><p>“I talked to him tonight; it didn’t exactly go well.”</p><p>“Fighting is not the same as talking. Talk to him. Like you used to. God knows you’ve been avoiding him long enough, I’m sure you both will have plenty of things to say.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, it’s not that easy.” Dean looks around at the bare and boring walls of his bedroom. He’s lived in this apartment almost two years now, and he still hasn’t really bothered to decorate much. Because he’s been busy, mostly, or at least that’s what he told Benny the few times he spent the night, before Benny started insisting they hook up at his place where it wasn’t so “goddamn depressing”. But also, probably because part of Dean still thinks some family emergency is gonna drag him back to Kansas when he least expects it. He even keeps a suitcase packed in the closet in case he needs to make a fast getaway. It’s like he still hasn’t really moved in, even after all this time. Like it’s just another place to stop and refuel before heading home; not a home in and of itself.</p><p>“I used to, you know,” he finds himself saying without really thinking about the words. “Talk to Cas. Something happened, good or bad, and he was the first person I wanted to tell. I’m sure I told him all kinds of shit I’ve never said to anyone else, you and Dad included. And then, all of a sudden, he was just. Gone. Just because I couldn’t be fucking bothered to make a commitment. And now… I don’t know how to open up like that anymore. Not even to him.”</p><p>Sam is quiet on the other end for so long that Dean looks down at his phone to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. Then, finally, Sam says, “You could tell him that. Might be a good place to start.”</p><p>“Yeah, I guess,” Dean says with a sigh. </p><p>But when he hangs up a few minutes later (without really saying goodbye because that’s the kind of affectionately dickish move the Winchester boys are famous for) and returns to his previous activity of staring dejectedly at the ceiling, he can’t help thinking about how his conversation with Cas tonight could’ve gone better.</p><p>Because Sam was right, of course. There was a time, before everything went wrong, even before everything went right, when Castiel was nothing more than a friend. His best friend.</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks again to @badassmonkeyfriend for beta-ing! This chapter is 3000 words and one of the shorter ones lol so get excited.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After their initial meeting, it was a little while before Dean saw Castiel again. He spent most of that time, when he wasn’t working at the auto shop or pestering Sam, building a radio station for St. Ambrose Regional Theater’s production of <em> It’s a Wonderful Life. </em> It was satisfying, easy work, only made difficult by the fact that his “help” was a two-person building crew made up of a cranky older guy named Rufus who loudly complained about every order Dean or Bobby gave him and a scrawny kid named Garth who was so incompetent that he almost amputated the fingers on his left hand with the table saw before Dean realized he shouldn’t give him access to power tools.</p><p>Every once in a while, Dean would see some of the actors rehearsing in different spaces of the theater when their work coincided with his, but as much as he kept an eye out for him, he never even caught a glimpse of a socially-awkward angel-actor in an oversized trench coat. It got to the point where Dean started to wonder if he’d somehow imagined Castiel altogether, and it didn’t help that no one he asked about him, not even the stage manager Ash who had the contact information of every actor in the show, seemed to know who the hell Dean was talking about. </p><p>And when Dean asked Ash who was playing Clarence the angel, the guy just laughed and said, “Our resident celebrity,” as if that fucking answered the question.</p><p>So suffice it to say, Dean was far from expecting it when he came into the scene shop one Saturday morning, exactly two weeks after he’d joined the crew, and saw Castiel unscrewing the legs from a chair Garth had somehow put together upside down. </p><p>“Cas?” Dean called as he dropped his stuff by the doorway. He looked around for someone to confirm he wasn’t seeing things, but the rest of his crew was nowhere to be found. “What the hell are you doing here?”</p><p>He turned around, screwdriver in hand, and gave Dean a smile that was soft in the mouth but wide and bright in the eyes. “Dean,” he said simply, nodding hello. Dean suddenly felt important again, and very glad he hadn’t made this man up. “I didn’t have rehearsal today, but your assistants said I could help.”</p><p>“Assistants?” Dean repeated, finally past his shock enough to actually walk all the way into the room. “Don’t let the crew hear you calling them that. Well, Rufus at least; Garth might consider it a promotion.” Cas tilted his head in confusion. Dean waved a hand. “Never mind. You wanna be a techie for a day, then?”</p><p>“Yes, please, if that’s all right with you,” Cas confirmed. “I helped my brother renovate our house a few years ago, so I do have some experience.”</p><p>“Well, that’s more than Garth can say,” Dean allowed. “All right, sure, why not? But take the damn coat off, will you? It’ll just get in the way.”</p><p>Cas frowned, but obediently shucked off his trench coat and laid it gently on an empty worktable like it was fragile, even patting it a few times to smooth out invisible wrinkles. Underneath, he was wearing a black suit and a crooked blue tie, like he’d tried to dress up fancy and gotten distracted halfway through. Dean couldn’t help but make a face at the outfit, which still wasn’t exactly construction-appropriate. “Is something wrong?” Cas asked, looking down at himself self-consciously. </p><p>Dean tried unsuccessfully to look less disapproving. “No, it’s just—You know, usually, when we’re doing work like this, we wear something we wouldn’t mind getting dirty or roughed around a bit.”</p><p>Cas looked down at his clothes again, then back up at Dean. “This can be washed.”</p><p>Dean laughed. “Right, yeah, I’m sure it can. All right, whatever. Just. Lose the tie, at least; you don’t want to strangle yourself with it. And the jacket, too. Roll your sleeves up. There we go,” he added approvingly as Cas did everything he said, adding items of clothing to the little pile atop his coat. Dean couldn’t help but swallow when Cas turned back to face him. Even with just the outerwear removed, he looked so much less stiff and formal. In taking the tie off, he’d undone the top few buttons of his shirt, and Dean’s attention was temporarily trapped by the hint of chest hair peeking out through Cas’s collar. </p><p>“That’s, uh—” Dean croaked, then cleared his throat and tried again. “Much better.”</p><p>Cas gave him that proud little smile again. “Shall I get back to work, then?”</p><p>“Uh, yeah. Go ahead and finish taking that chair apart; I’m gonna go find the rest of my crew.”</p><p>Cas nodded and retrieved his screwdriver, then turned back to his task with a serious expression, like it was the most important responsibility in the world. Dean stood there, watching him for a moment or two. He considered grabbing an impact driver from the rack, guiding Cas through learning to use the instrument, how to brace your body for the power of the drill, maybe even gently coaxing Cas’s arms into the correct position from behind, the two of them gently screwing… Dean shook himself out of his thoughts and forced himself to walk away. He didn’t have time for this. Cas could manage the job with an analog screwdriver. And Dean could daydream about being the one to take that trench coat and tie off of Cas another time. Right now, he had work to do.</p><p>Collectively, the four of them got a good amount of work done over the next few hours, with Cas’s limited experience making up for Garth’s complete ineptitude (and they only had to take something apart and start from scratch twice, so that was a win in Dean’s book). Every time Cas successfully spread paint on the molding of a doorframe or hammered a nail into place without hammering his thumb, Dean got stupidly happy about it, mostly because every once in a while Cas would look over at him for approval and grin when Dean shot him a thumbs up in reply.</p><p>By the end of the day, Dean was feeling pretty damn good about himself. The set was almost built and half of it was already painted. What had felt a little bit like a second job over the last few weeks had finally started feeling like fun again, and Dean knew it was mostly due to the pleasant company he’d stumbled into working with. He was even ready to offer Cas a permanent place on the stage crew if he wanted it.</p><p>But then Ash came into the shop to give Dean the latest rehearsal reports, just as he was packing up to leave, and said, “You got actors building your sets now, man?” and Dean’s mind came crashing back down to reality.</p><p>He looked behind him to where Castiel was pulling his clothes back on; or rather, where Castiel had one arm through his jacket sleeve, the other arm through his trench coat sleeve, and had looped his tie around his neck but was staring down at it with frustrated confusion, like the effort of figuring out how to tie it was a little too herculean for his liking. Something warm erupted in Dean’s chest, and he had to actively stop himself from grinning like an idiot as he said, “Yeah, well. He wanted to help.”</p><p>Once Ash was gone again, Dean slung his bag over one shoulder and went over to Cas. “You need some help there?”</p><p>Cas looked up at him, eyes wide and blue, then back down at his tie. “No,” he decided after a moment and left his tie undone. He started to pull his trench coat on the rest of the way, seemed to realize he was only half-wearing his suit jacket, and took the coat off altogether to fix that before putting it back on overtop. </p><p>Dean watched all of this with a smirk of mild amusement playing at his lips, but he waited until Cas looked back up at him to say, “Hey, you wanna get a drink? With me? Or dinner or something?”</p><p>Cas just continued to stare at him for a moment, his expression somehow so open and yet betraying no clear hint of emotion. Dean found himself holding his breath. Then, Cas said, “Either of those would be wonderful. I would do anything to avoid going home.”</p><p>It wasn’t the best acceptance of a date Dean had ever received, but it also wasn’t the worst, and to be fair, Dean hadn’t <em> really </em> asked him out in as many words, so it was better than nothing. “Great. You got a car outside?”</p><p>Cas shook his head. “I walked here.”</p><p>Dean grinned and slung an arm around Cas’s shoulder, starting to lead him towards the theater door. “Perfect. Then, I’ll drive.” </p><hr/><p>Dean had been on a lot of strange first dates in his life. Some of them had involved going to a nice restaurant after work, like when Cassie Robinson outdrank him by about seven and a half shots and still had to drive him home. Some had even involved his date not fully knowing they were on a date, like when Lisa Braeden took him through twenty-four different yoga positions before she told him she was in a committed relationship with a doctor named Matt and had just thought Dean was interested in yoga. But they’d all been with women, thus far. Not for lack of trying; it was just that the whole “Dean not being a hundred percent straight” thing had been somewhat of a recent realization, and the gay and bi guys he’d encountered at KU had been more of the “fuck first, ask questions later” types. </p><p>So, technically, this was Dean’s first date with a guy, if he could even call it a date, and of course it was one of the stranger ones. He took Cas to his favorite diner, a few blocks from the garage, where they sold triple bacon cheeseburgers for a buck and a half if you bought a pitcher of beer and there was a jukebox at every table filled with classic ‘70s hits that reminded Dean of his mom. He claimed a booth for the two of them and slid into one side while Cas took the other. Cas kept his coat on, which Dean didn’t know how to ask about, but he also looked more comfortable and casual sitting there than Dean had ever seen him. </p><p>“So. What do you think?” </p><p>“I like it here,” Cas said simply. He leaned in across the table and gave Dean a conspiratorial grin like he was imparting some great secret. “I spent a lot of time in places like this when I was growing up.”</p><p>“Really,” Dean said with interest. “Why’s that?”</p><p>He wasn’t sure what answer he was expecting to get out of Castiel, but it certainly wasn’t the one he got. “I was a child actor.”</p><p>Dean blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “You. What?”</p><p>“I’ve been acting since I was a young child,” Cas rephrased, offering the information like it was totally normal. “As I told you, I have four older siblings—well, three older siblings and a twin, although she is also older than me—but my father was a very busy man and preferred his children to be engaged in as many extracurricular activities as possible so as not to bother him while he was working. My primary activity was community theatre, when there were parts available for children. <em> A Christmas Carol </em> , <em> Oliver! </em>, that sort of thing. Mostly, it was me and maybe a few other children in a cast of adults, so I spent a lot of time reading in diners and theater lobbies and not a lot of time interacting with people my own age.”</p><p><em> Ah, </em> Dean thought. So that was why Cas was Like That. “Wow. That’s, uh, that’s quite a childhood.”</p><p>“I didn’t mind it so much,” Cas assured him. “And it led me to my current profession.”</p><p>“Yeah, I guess that’s true.”</p><p>Their waitress came, and Dean waved away her offer of menus in favor of ordering two of all his usual favorites. It wasn’t until she walked away that he considered that might have been a little rude of him, but Cas looked grateful rather than annoyed, so Dean let himself relax.</p><p>“What else can you tell me about yourself?” he asked, mostly just to keep the conversation going. Dean still wasn’t sure if this was a date or just a friendly hangout, but either way, if he could manage to avoid any kind of awkward silence, he could declare it a success. </p><p>So, they traded tidbits and stories back and forth for the better part of an hour—Cas told Dean about his life in the theatre, shows he’d been in and parts he’d played and how rehearsals were going now; Dean told Cas about his own, more limited, experience, the shows he ran tech for in college and how he’d been ambushed by Bobby Singer, and then he talked even more (and probably a little too much) about his car that Cas clearly hadn’t gotten a good enough look at on the ride over here or he would’ve been much more impressed. Once their meals came, Cas did most of the eating and Dean did most of the drinking, and they talked about the books they’d read and the shows they’d seen and how the <em> It’s a Wonderful Life </em> set was going to turn out once Dean and the crew had finished putting all the bits and pieces together.</p><p>Cas didn’t tell him why he’d been at the theater, volunteering to paint sets, when he didn’t have rehearsal, and Dean didn’t ask. He’d seen the way Cas had looked down at the table and fiddled with the frayed belt of his trench coat when he’d talked about his family, and he remembered what Cas had said before they’d left the theater—“I would do anything to avoid going home”—and what he’d said in the green room when they first met—Bobby letting him stay until the theater closed, and “I like it better here” and a home too full and loud—so Dean didn’t press, and he ordered another round when the waitress stopped by, even as it started getting darker and darker outside the diner window.</p><p> To be fair, Dean didn’t offer much up about his family either. He brought up Sam every once in a while, when a story required it, and occasionally, a song would come on the jukebox that would make him say, “Oh, my mom loved this song,” or, “My dad had this on a mixtape,” but he didn’t explain why any mention of his parents or his brother included the use of the past tense, and Cas didn’t ask. So it was fine.</p><p>As the night wore on, and most of two pitchers of beer made it harder and harder for Dean to lie to himself, he started to realize that there was really no way he could even try to call this a date. He didn’t even know if Cas was into guys, much less Dean specifically, though by the looks of him, Dean wouldn’t be surprised if Cas had never actually dated anyone before. Though, for all he knew, Cas could be in a happily committed relationship and just hadn’t thought to mention it.  </p><p>Dean considered several courses of action after coming to this realization. He could ask Cas, point blank, if he were single and not straight. He could turn his flirting up a few dozen notches and see how Cas responded. Or, he could give up trying so damn hard and just let things run their course however the universe saw fit. Somehow, the thought of the last option didn’t frustrate him as much as it usually would have. He liked Cas, in more ways than one. If they needed to be just friends for a little while, or even forever, Dean thought he might be okay with that. </p><p>Finally, after their food and drinks were long gone and the hostess was starting to glare at them for holding up the table too long, Dean stretched his arms out above his head with an exaggerated yawn and said, “Well, unfortunately, some of us do have to work tomorrow, so we’d better get going.”</p><p>“You have work on a Sunday?” Cas asked as he pulled out his wallet.</p><p>Dean waved him off and produced his own cash, then slid out from the booth and got to his feet. “Yeah, you know, I own the place, so even when the shop’s closed, I gotta go in to work on the finances and all. Boring but important business, I guess.”</p><p>Castiel stood from the table and turned his attention to tying the belt of his trench coat as if it were a task that required all his concentration. “Yes, well. I don’t have rehearsal tomorrow. I mean, if you wanted some company, I could…”</p><p>Dean bit his lip to keep from smiling too widely. “No, yeah, you should totally come by. I, uh, I know you don’t love hanging around at home.”</p><p>Cas looked up at him, his eyes wide and his brows knitted together just slightly. “Not just that. I like to be with you.”</p><p>He looked like he was telling Dean the secret to the universe, all concerned eyebrows and intense eye contact. Like he really cared that Dean knew he was sincere. Dean told himself that his legs suddenly grew wobbly because of all the beer he’d drunk (even though it hadn’t actually been that much, comparatively, and he and Cas had been sitting at the table talking more than long enough for him to sober up), but he also told himself that if he broke Cas’s intense eye contact, he’d fall over, and that was the only reason why he didn’t look away.</p><p>“I like to be with you, too, Cas.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading, all! Hope you enjoy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The first thing Benny says to him when Dean comes into the scene shop the next morning is, “He’s not in today.” The second thing, a short pause later, is, “Thanks for coming back, Chief.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean surreptitiously peers around Benny to make sure Cas isn’t hiding in the shop somewhere. He gives his friend a tight smile. “I’m no quitter. Or at least, I’m trying not to be one anymore.”</span>
</p>
<p><span>And with that said, Dean buries himself in his work. Because it’s so much easier to put his back into the flat he’s drilling and concentrate on the steady way his circular saw eats through the chalk line on a sheet of plywood than to think about how he can’t follow Sam’s advice even if he wanted to. Though it doesn’t help that most of the tasks Dean’s needed for are rote at this point, and he keeps having to stop himself from slipping into inappropriate daydreams about Cas.</span> <span>He needs to keep all thoughts about drilling, screwing, and hammering strictly professional if he’s gonna get through this show. And if he sometimes slips up enough to imagine Cas’s deep blue eyes appraising the flawless detail work on his set, that’s nobody’s business but Dean’s.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Days go by without any more late night confrontations or even any accidental run-ins. Dean sees Cas every once in a while, down a hallway or through a window, and sometimes Cas even looks up and makes brief eye contact with him. But every time Dean starts to think about striking up a conversation with him, Meg is there, blocking Dean’s path, draping herself over Cas’s frame like an expensive scarf, and Dean feels sick to his stomach. So mostly, Cas stays in rehearsal with the actors, and Dean keeps working with his crew, and they coexist in the same space together without ever talking to each other. And every night, Dean comes home to his empty apartment and drinks himself to sleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But as tech week rapidly approaches, Dean knows he can’t just avoid Cas forever. The set’s built, so Dean has less to do day-to-day other than drift around the theater waiting for something to go wrong. Eventually, he and his crew pack everything up onto trucks and move the set downtown a few dozen blocks into the Eugene O’Neill Theater on West 49th and Broadway. And that only provides Dean with different, though no more successful, distractions. He gets to know the twists and turns of a new building and spends unnecessarily long amounts of time focusing and refocusing every light on the first electric. He falls absolutely in </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> with the fly systems, which extend higher than in any theater he’s had the chance to run, and use a top-of-the-line counterweight system with adjustable battens. If he stands right in the center of the catwalk across the fly gallery, Dean can see the whole stage and both wings without the audience having any idea he’s there. It’s every part of theater he’s always loved; all fantastical worlds, brilliant lighting, and perfectly coordinated magical moments without any of the pandering to real people. It’s not that Dean minds actors or their work, it’s just that if he could make worlds without tourists coming into town for a weekend and loudly judging his work, he would in a heartbeat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As technical director and the person with the most experience with rigging people to fly systems (he did a brief stint on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Spider-Man: Turn off the Dark </span>
  </em>
  <span>that he will deny to anyone that asks at parties), it falls to Dean to rig the system that Cas will be using when he flies in as the unfathomable (and in Dean’s opinion kind of creepy) Angel of America. There’s a little cartoon angel on the diagram for the rigging points, which was probably Ellen’s idea of a joke, but it hits a little too close to home. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The last time Dean and Cas worked on a show together Cas was also an angel—</span>
  <em>
    <span>is that coincidence or typecasting?</span>
  </em>
  <span>—and they were on much better terms, to say the least. Dean finds himself reaching out to gently caress the drawing’s little face on more than one humiliating occasion. Charlie now thinks he has </span>
  <em>
    <span>a thing </span>
  </em>
  <span>for cherubs, or maybe just that he’s very Catholic. The other week Dean caught her red-handed rearranging her schedule so that her work slots overlapped more with Jo’s, though, so he’s reasonably sure she’ll keep her thoughts to herself… for now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Two weeks before opening night, Dean spends most of a day setting up the fly system and teaching the Assistant Stage Managers how to run it. It’ll be Dean’s job to check everything before each run of the show, making sure the wires are secured to the batten that will bear Cas’s weight, but Claire and Alex will actually man the system mid-performance and make Castiel, the Angel of America, descend from the heavens to smite a physical manifestation of AIDS so that some gay Jewish guy can be the second coming of Christ. Or whatever the fuck happens; Dean still hasn’t actually seen the show. He instructs them on how to twist the locking carabiners and check that they’re hooked to the harness tightly with no sign of buckling. Then he has them run it a few times with him strapped into the fly lines to make sure they have it down to a science.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That night, he sticks around later than he usually would to watch a full run of the show from the audience for the first time and be on call in case anything goes wrong. But then he sits in the back of the house with a notepad and the script on his lap and taps his pen anxiously against his leg instead of taking any notes. He follows the cues scribbled into the book as Benny calls them through the headset Dean wears over one ear, but he can’t quite manage to absorb the storyline of the play. Every time a scene ends and Castiel hasn’t come onstage, his shoulders relax a little bit, and then they tense up again when the next scene starts. Benny calls a break right before the last scene of Part One, and Dean slips out of the theater without waiting to hear why.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Out in the lobby, he paces back and forth, muttering Metallica lyrics to himself until he calms the fuck down. He’s honestly not sure what it is making him so restless, but he doesn’t think it has anything to do with the almost three and a half hours of gay fantasia he’s just sat through. He thinks it might just be the anticipation of the ten minutes they have left, and the one line of dialogue Castiel will speak at the very end of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One time, about a year and a half ago, Dean bought tickets to see his first show since moving to New York and then walked out before the curtain rose because he saw Cas’s name under “Chorus” in the program. It had been hundreds of dollars just tossed down the drain, but Dean hadn’t been able to sit in the theater and watch his ex grace the stage, even if it was just for a few minutes at a time, even if Cas never said a line. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He hasn’t seen Cas act since closing night of </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a Wonderful Life</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And it’s stupid, but his five-year streak is about to end, and he can’t deny it’s freaking him out a little. He was a fan of those piercing blue eyes and that arresting growl of a voice long before the name Castiel was splattered across tabloid headlines and Tony nomination lists. He’s worried the already loose hold he has on his feelings will crumble altogether once he bears witness to Cas doing what Cas does best again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Well. Second best, maybe. The sex was always pretty damn good.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The headset crackles in his ear, and Benny’s voice comes through a moment later. “Everything all right, Chief? We’re back in a minute.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean presses the speaker closer to his ear with one hand and hits the talk button on the intercom hooked to his belt with the other. “Yeah, sorry, I’ll be right there. Just. Needed a sec.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No problem, brother. ASMs are getting Castiel hooked in and then we’re getting started.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean nods, even though he knows Benny can’t see him, and then verbally acknowledges his understanding before he switches his mic off again. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He allows himself only as long as it takes for him to drag oxygen all the way into his lungs to dredge up every thought and feeling of love and loss and joy and heartbreak that he’s ever associated with Castiel, and then he bundles them all up into a tight little knot and, with one sharp exhale, shoves them down into the deepest part of himself where he can pretend they don’t exist. At least long enough for him to do his goddamn job.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He opens his eyes feeling honestly a little better, and then turns back to head through the theater doors and jumps practically right out of his skin. Because lounging against the wall next to him, where a minute ago no one had been, is the demon debutante herself, Meg Masters.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Son of a—” Dean bites his lip to swallow back the rest of the curse. “Hey. Meg. I, uh. Didn’t see you standing there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’s still in costume from her last scene, so she’s wearing a white snowsuit covered in glittery sequins and slippers shaped like penguin heads (seriously; what the fuck is this show even about? Dean should really pay attention during tomorrow’s run), and yet she manages to look strangely seductive through her stage makeup. “We haven’t met yet,” she says simply, giving him a half-cocked smile like the fact amuses her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s true, if mostly because Dean’s been avoiding having anything to do with her. But he just blinks at her, unsure how to respond. She’s conventionally beautiful and confident in a slick sort of way, with eye contact even more intense than Cas’s. Dean can see what draws Cas to her. He also isn’t sure if she makes him uncomfortable or turns him on a little. Maybe a little bit of both.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He shifts his stance and clears his throat, then tries for a professional smile and shoves a hand out for her to shake. “Yeah, no, I guess not. I’m Dean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She makes no move to shake his hand and doesn’t take her eyes off his face. “I know. Winchester.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean flinches back, letting his hand drop awkwardly back to his side. He doesn’t like the way she says his name. Like it’s the gun it was derived from and she’s shooting him with every syllable. His smile fades, and he opens his mouth to respond but can’t seem to find the words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Meg slinks forward a few steps into Dean’s personal space. “And you know who I am. Don’t you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean swallows. He wants to back up or push her away, but somehow he can tell that any negative reaction he gives will only please Meg too damn much, so he holds his ground. “Yeah, I know who you are,” he grunts. “You’re Cas’s—” and then he shuts his mouth so hard his teeth hurt before he can say the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>beard</span>
  </em>
  <span> because he doesn’t know how out Cas is in this apple pie life of his, and unfortunate history or not, Dean’s not that much of a dick. “—</span>
  <em>
    <span>lovely girlfriend</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he bites out instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lovely,” Meg repeats with a soft laugh that sends unpleasant shivers down Dean’s spine. Uncomfortable, definitely uncomfortable. She steps even closer, until he can feel the bedazzled arm of her ridiculous snowsuit scraping against his wrist. “Well, I suppose we can skip the intros then, hmm? And cut right to the chase.” She lifts a hand and runs a sharply manicured finger through Dean’s close-cropped hair, knocking his headset off his ear so it just sits looped around his neck. “I know you and Clarence used to have a thing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Clarence?” Dean echoes, trying for innocent curiosity, maybe even a little bit of confusion, but his voice breaks, and Meg notices, if the flash of triumph in her eyes is anything to go by. Dean swallows and continues, low and steady, “You mean Cas.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mind is reeling a little bit. In all the tabloid articles and TV interviews and unnecessarily detailed Twitter itineraries he’s seen about Meg and Cas’s relationship, not once has she publicly called him anything but Castiel. The fact that she’s using a nickname for him now, not to mention the fact that the nickname is a reference to the dorky, wingless, second-class angel Cas played in </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a Wonderful Life</span>
  </em>
  <span>, has to be on purpose. Pointed and crafted just to get under Dean’s skin. And he hates to admit it, but it’s working. He feels a sick sort of anger bubble up inside him at the idea of Cas and Meg, probably in bed together, talking about the shows Cas did back in Lawrence. Talking about </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dean</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Before these last few weeks, there were exactly three times when Dean talked about Castiel after their breakup. Once, to Sam, right after it happened, in a text that said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>We broke up. Don’t ask me about it. Good luck at school. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And twice, to Benny, in offhand comments like “I don’t work on shows he’s in,” and “yeah, we dated a while back. It didn’t end well,” accompanied by glares that dared Benny to ask him to elaborate. He’s never talked about their breakup, to anyone, in any detail. He’s never talked about the only show they did together to anyone who wasn’t a part of it. There were even a few months after he first moved to the city where he took any and every job he could find just so he could muster up enough credits to warrant taking </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a Wonderful Life</span>
  </em>
  <span> off his resume. Hence </span>
  <em>
    <span>Spider-Man</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It was always just easier to pretend all that shit with Cas never happened, especially after he left Kansas behind. And it’s not like Dean has ever been the kind of person who talked about his feelings when he could avoid it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cas is that kind of person. So who knows what kind of shit about Dean he’s said to Meg. Most of it’s probably even true. And now she calls him Clarence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Listen closely, buddy boy,” Meg coos, calling Dean’s attention back to her face only inches from his. She cups his cheek with one hand. “I know</span>
  <em>
    <span> everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> that happens to Castiel. So I will know if you overstep any lines, or shimmy your way back into his trench coat. And I will not hesitate to ruin you. Your name, your reputation, your pretty face. The second you come near my angel, all are fair game. I will scoop out your eyeballs and use them as Christmas ornaments.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh.” Dean blinks dimly. She’s threatening him? She’s threatened by him? He opens his mouth again, but for some reason, the only potential response his brain can come up with is, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Technically, it’s an overcoat.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I need to hear a ‘yes, Meg, I understand.’”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean curls his hands into fists at his side, letting anger cut through his brain’s stupefied fog. “Oh, I understand,” he assures her. He grabs her hand, still curled around his cheek, and pulls it away from his face before dropping it like it’s poisonous. “But listen to me, sweetheart. I’m not trying to come after your boyfriend. He’s the one who wanted me here. So if you’re worried about losing him, maybe you need to take a closer look at your relationship before you come shooting at me, all right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Meg doesn’t back down, and the two of them just stand there for a few moments, close enough to kiss but glaring at each other with furious, tangible heat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then they both look up and away from each other when the theater doors suddenly burst open next to them. Benny doesn’t look upset, or even very surprised, to see them. In fact, he barely pays Meg any notice at all, instead pointing an accusing finger at Dean as he shouts, “Where the hell have you been? You weren’t on headset; we’ve got a situation in there.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s mind snaps violently back into tech director mode and he scrambles to pull his headset back up to his ears. “What? What happened?” he asks Benny even as he starts to follow him into the theater. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jody tried to start the run back up, but Claire called a hold three pages in,” Benny explains as they hurry down the stairs towards the front of the house. The director’s table where Benny and Jody had been sitting about half way back is empty, Dean notices, and some of the actors alongside half his crew are hovering awkwardly on the stage, waiting to be told what to do. “Apparently Castiel had some kind of breakdown in the catwalks. He won’t let Claire and Alex hook him in, but he also won’t come down.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean stops short in his tracks and only realizes Meg has been steadily following them when she runs into his back. But he barely feels it. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he breathes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean is suddenly hit with a visceral flashback to a memory that up to that moment he’d somehow managed to repress. Castiel, five years younger, pale and shaking on a catwalk not nearly as sturdy as this theater’s. Castiel gripping Dean’s shoulders like a lifeline, burying his face in Dean’s chest, and whispering through his sobs, “I can’t do it. Dean, please, don’t make me do this.” Castiel, in a nightshirt and wings, hooked into an aging fly system and testing carabiners with his eyes closed, putting Dean’s hands over his on the harness and saying, “It’s okay, Dean. I trust you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>How could Dean have forgotten all that? How could Dean have sat in a production meeting with Jody and Ellen and Benny and heard the words, “and then the angel will fly in” and not remember Cas’s debilitating fear of heights, not immediately demand a change on Cas’s behalf?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cause he’s a selfish asshole, that’s how. And now, even when it’s literally his job to, there’s no way for Dean to fix this. It’s too late. Cas doesn’t trust him like that anymore. Cas won’t want his help.</span>
</p>
<p><span>Benny’s trying to pull him forward again, and Claire’s freaking out over the headset, but Dean just twists around to look at Meg. Their eyes meet, and any animosity they might have garnered for each other is gone in an instant, replaced by their shared concern for Cas. Meg glances up towards the catwalks above them, then looks back at Dean and Benny and nods. “How do I get up there? I’ll talk him down.”</span><span><br/></span> <span>“You can’t,” Benny says immediately.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Dean waves him off. “I know it’s a legal thing, Benny, but if her being there can calm him down, then—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, I mean,” Benny interrupts. He glances nervously between Dean and Meg, then continues, “Castiel specifically asked for you, Dean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Meg’s expression crumples, and then builds back up into something like anger again. But Dean doesn’t have time to process the implications of all that. He has a job to do, and it seems Castiel might actually let him do it. So, he breaks away from Benny and Meg, hops the stairs up to the stage, and pushes through the crowd of actors to get to the stage right wing. The back stairs leading up to the catwalks are lit only by glow tape and courage, but Dean’s been up and down them enough times by now to race up them without looking. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he reaches the top of the stairs, he doesn’t let himself stop to think about what he’s going to do. He catches sight of Cas sitting in the exact center of the catwalk, as far from either edge as he can manage to get, and just runs to him. The ASMs are huddled around him, Claire on headset talking to Benny down below while Alex tries to coax Cas into standing up, but Cas has his legs pulled up to his chest and his face buried in his knees, so he’s probably not even hearing her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Get out of the way. Give him some space,” Dean orders as he approaches them, and then he waits only long enough for Claire and Alex to clear out of the way before he kneels down in front of Cas. He starts to take Cas’s hands, but then finally hesitates, not sure if physical contact from him will make Cas feel better or worse. So he keeps his hands clasped in his lap and whispers, “Hey, Cas. I’m here.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A shudder runs through Cas’s frame, which somehow looks thinner in his costume than in his usual suit and coat. He doesn’t lift his head, but half-sobs into his knees, “Dean,” and Dean thinks he physically </span>
  <em>
    <span>feels</span>
  </em>
  <span> his heart break.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, Cas, it’s me,” he murmurs and tries his luck at touch now, gently taking one of Cas’s hands from where it’s wrapped around his legs and holding it in his own. “You wanna tell me what happened, bud?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Cas whispers. “I thought I could do it. I—I wanted to prove to you that I could do it without you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean has to close his eyes at that, as if not being able to physically see Cas will make that statement any less fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>sad.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Aw, man, Cas.” Seriously, what the hell is he supposed to say to that? “Look, don’t worry about all that. Let’s just. Let’s just get you up, and we’ll talk to Jody and figure something out, okay? You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable doing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This is what happens when actors are insured for millions of dollars,” he hears Claire say over the headset. Dean shoots her a glare and then pulls his speakers down around his neck again so he doesn’t have to hear her continue to complain about changing the blocking two weeks from opening night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cas still won’t raise his head, and Dean can’t tell if Cas’s shoulders are shaking because he’s crying or just because he’s so damn scared. Dean closes his eyes again, trying to pretend that Claire and Alex and, who is he kidding, probably Benny and Meg aren’t standing just a few feet away watching his every move. Trying to pretend that he didn’t spend five years wishing he could forget Cas even existed. He tries to remember how he used to deal with this, all those years ago, and then he tells himself there’s no reason why he can’t do the same things. He opens his eyes and grips Cas’s hand tighter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“All right, Cas, listen up,” he says in a softer version of the no-nonsense </span>
  <em>
    <span>do what I say or so help me, goddammit</span>
  </em>
  <span> tone he learned from John Winchester. “Don’t think about the show, or the people you’re trying not to disappoint, or whatever the hell you’re scared will go wrong, okay? It’s just you and me here. Just focus on me. Can you do that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cas slowly raises his head, just a little bit and then all the way when he sees Dean has blocked his view of the catwalk’s edge. His face is pale and drawn under the beard he still hasn’t shaved. He looks down at their hands clasped together and then back up at Dean’s face, his eyes wide and dim but no less intense. “Just. You and me?” he repeats.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean nods and reaches to take Cas’s other hand as well. “Up on three, okay? One. Two. Up, there we go.” He pulls Cas up to his feet and then tries to let go of him, but Cas’s grip is unrelenting on Dean’s wrists. Because standing up straight, of course, makes them technically higher up, so Cas’s shaking has resumed with a vengeance, if it ever really stopped. “Damn it, Cas, how did you even get yourself up here?” he murmurs sympathetically. “All right, buddy, you gotta let me go a little bit here. We’re just gonna take one step at a time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cas loosens his hold just enough for Dean to adjust and wrap an arm around his waist instead. Slowly, they walk together across the catwalk, one step at a time, and then Dean takes Cas’s hand again and lets him grip it tight enough to bruise as they inch their way down the stairs and back onto solid ground. Claire and Alex must have gone ahead to get things ready for them because the actors and techies that had been crowding the stage a few minutes ago are nowhere to be found and there’s a lone chair sitting stage right with a blanket and a bottle of water on the floor next to it. Dean gets Cas sitting down, makes him drink the water, drapes the blanket over his shoulders like he’s a shock victim. And then Dean stands a good twenty feet away, hands in his pockets, eyes trained loosely somewhere over Cas’s left shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He suddenly feels the distance between them like a physical ache, but he knows he can’t close it again. His job here is done. He has no right to be close to Cas anymore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says after a minute or two of awkward silence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean cuts his gaze to him. Cas looks better already; he’ll be back to normal any minute now. Dean nods to him and then turns away and fits his headset back on. “We’re all good here, Benny,” he says into the mic. “What’s the plan?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Benny tells him that Jody canceled the rest of rehearsal and sent all of the actors home, but Dean only half-hears him. He can still feel Cas’s eyes on him and it’s unfairly distracting. He glances over at the chair, where Cas is staring right at Dean as he sips from the water bottle. A few drops spill and glisten in his beard. Dean closes his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How you doing over there, Cas?” he asks, forcing himself to sound normal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m all right. I’d like to try the flying scene again.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s eyes snap open and he meets Cas’s gaze again just to make sure he’s not messing with him. But Cas looks just as serious as ever. “You’re kidding, right?” Dean says anyway. “Were you not just up there with me? That was a fucking disaster, and you want to do it </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cas sits up straighter, letting the blanket fall off his shoulders. “I’m an actor, Dean. It’s in the blocking. I may have… reacted badly the first time, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do it. I’ve done it before. You know that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean does know that, but he purposefully misinterprets Cas’s words again anyway. “Yeah, didn’t you do the whole thing during fight call? Why didn’t you freak out then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cas frowns. “That was four hours ago. The Xanax has since worn off.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean rolls his eyes. “Oh, great, so you gotta be drugged to do the scene then? Then you’re definitely not doing it. I’m telling Jody to change the blocking and that’s final.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He starts to turn away again to do just that, but Cas’s next words stop him in his tracks. “I can do it if you help me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean grits his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache. He should say no. He should walk away and tell Jody her actor can’t do the damn scene the way she’s blocked it and give up using the gorgeous fly system at all because Cas’s safety is more important than theatricality, and pretend that Dean’s stupid guilt and insecurity has nothing to do with that decision whatsoever. But part of him, maybe the part of him that told Sam, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know how to open up like that anymore</span>
  </em>
  <span>, can’t help wanting to stand close to Cas again with the convenient excuse of strapping him into his carabiners. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And because Dean has no fucking self-control, the next thing he knows, he’s saying into the headset, “I’m gonna run the fly with Castiel again; can you have the operators ready on my call?” and then he’s grabbing Cas by the arm and pulling him back towards the stairs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s ready to give up again the second things start to go wrong, but Cas—ever true to his word—doesn’t panic the whole way up. Dean keeps his hand firmly on Cas’s arm as they walk to the middle of the catwalk and then face each other, Dean’s back to the proscenium. Dean goes through the motions without letting himself look Cas in the eye or think about how close they have to stand on the narrow catwalk or how their hips just brush together or how Dean can feel Cas’s breath on his neck. He pulls the carabiners from their hooks on the rail and attaches them to the loops on Cas’s harness, clicking and then tightening them into place. He tests each side, gripping the carabiner tightly to make sure it won’t buckle at all under pressure and inspecting the wire connections closely. Only once Cas is situated and strapped in does Dean glance up at him, and only to say, “Check ‘em for me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cas takes a deep, only slightly shaky, breath and obediently reaches for the carabiners as well, tightening his hands against the metal perfunctorily. He gives Dean a nod, staring bravely ahead, but Dean can’t miss his nervous gulp or the trembling of his hands or the bright fear in his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck it.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cas, hey, look at me.” Cas immediately meets his eyes, and Dean forces himself not to look away. “I rigged these fly lines myself, even had them test ‘em with me strapped in, and you know I eat way more pie than you do. These wires are rated to carry four thousand pounds without wear or breaking, and these carabiners are rated for over five thousand. If everything goes wrong and you start to descend too quickly, we have an emergency brake that will stop your fall within a foot and a half. It’s safe, you hear me? You’re safe up here. I would never let anything happen to you, okay, Cas? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Never.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something shifts in Cas’s expression, though Dean can’t say what, and he stands up a little straighter, takes a breath that doesn’t shake, and puts a still hand on Dean’s shoulder. He gives Dean that same goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>look</span>
  </em>
  <span>—furrowed brow, mouth slightly open, eyes steady and intense—and says with total solemnity, “I trust you, Dean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s heart skips a beat. The words, “You shouldn’t,” are out of his mouth before he can even make the conscious choice to say them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cas’s frown only deepens. “That isn’t up to you,” he says, tightening his grip on Dean’s shoulder. “I know things didn’t end well between us, Dean, but that doesn’t mean I could ever stop... trusting you,” he adds unnecessarily, which only makes Dean think he’d really meant to say something else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cas</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Dean starts to say. He’s not even sure what’s going to come out of his mouth next, but neither he nor Cas gets to find out because the headset crackles in his ear and Benny’s voice comes through: “Ready when you are, Chief.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean clears his throat and takes a step back from Cas, glancing down over the catwalk towards where Claire is waiting in the stage right wing to give her operators the signal. He glances back up at Cas. “You gonna be all right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cas has his eyes shut tight, his hands clenched into fists, but he nods and shuffles backwards until he’s standing right on the edge of the catwalk. Dean just stands there watching him for a moment or two. He thinks about how fucked up you’d have to be to put all your trust into someone as untrustworthy as Dean Winchester, and then he thinks about how fucked up he has to be to even think that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He forces his train of thought back on track and hits the talk button on his headset. “Getting Cas into place now,” he speaks into the microphone. He keeps his eyes locked on Cas, who’s looking at him again, waiting for instructions. The remnant fear and open trust in his expression only make Dean feel worse; this next part is the scariest. “Okay, Cas. Now whenever you’re ready, just step backward.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cas reaches out to catch Dean’s hand in his before he steps back off the catwalk. It’s not remotely safe for Dean, who isn’t strapped in and who Cas could easily pull to his death, but Dean doesn’t dare let go. And, of course, the rigging holds, leaving Cas hanging securely in open air. Dean squeezes Cas’s smooth hand reassuringly and flashes him a small smile. “You’ve got this. Don’t look down.” Cas huffs out a nervous laugh, but nods and lets go of his hand. Dean reaches for his talk button. “I’ve got one angel on standby.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Standby: fly cue forty-two,” Benny calls in his ear. Cas is already starting to get restless, Dean can tell, shifting his weight uncomfortably in his harness, and then his face goes newly pale when even the tiniest movement makes him swing forward half an inch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Standing by,” Claire confirms. Cas catches Dean’s eye again and manages a tight smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean suddenly finds himself, at this most inopportune moment, with the unexplainable urge to ask Cas </span>
  <em>
    <span>why.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Why he thought he could do this without Dean’s help. Why he insisted on doing it at all after he’d been given an out. Why he told the producer to hire Dean, and cornered him outside the theater at one in the morning, and told his girlfriend enough about their past relationship to warrant her threatening him. Why he still claims to trust Dean, after everything Dean’s done to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Fly cue forty-two, go,” Benny’s voice says over the headset, a stark reminder of why Dean can’t ask any of that, at least not right now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cas descends. And Dean stands there on the catwalk, one hand holding his headset speaker closer to his ear, waiting for something to go wrong again. But nothing does. Cas makes his entrance, even says his few angelic lines. Dean listens to the calls in his ear as the fly operators lower Cas all the way to the stage, and then he glances down over the catwalk to see Claire and Alex unhooking Cas’s harness for him. When he’s free again, Cas turns around and looks up in Dean’s direction, giving him a joyful smile and a proud thumbs-up even though he can’t actually see Dean through the stage lights beaming down on him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I did it, Dean!” he calls up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And if Dean has managed up until that moment to convince himself that he stopped being in love with Castiel sometime in the last five years, there’s no way he can continue to do so now. He’s definitely still in love with him. And he’s definitely </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> fucked. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey all! Sorry it's been a while since I updated; I was working on original writing for school so that took up my focus for a little while. But I'm here now! We're back in flashback land, and we're gonna learn some more Cas backstory so get excited! I also reworked some season 4 quotes in this chapter, so look out for those references.</p><p>Also fyi, every shirt Cas wears in this chapter is one of Priestley's shirts from Ten Inch Hero (played by Jensen Ackles).</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They made a pattern of it over the next few weeks. When Dean’s tech calls and Cas’s rehearsals overlapped, they’d take turns picking a venue to go out for drinks afterwards. On the weekends, if Cas was free, he’d show up at the theater in faded jeans and novelty t-shirts (hand-me-downs from his siblings, he explained, as if Dean could’ve thought Cas would ever buy a shirt that said “I Sell Crack for the CIA” for himself) and help Dean’s crew paint sets and gather props. And on Sunday mornings, Cas would meet Dean at the auto shop and keep him company while Dean sorted through bills and invoices until his vision went blurry. </p><p>Dean gave up on wondering if his relationship with Cas would ever be anything more than platonic and just let himself enjoy having a friend for maybe the first time in his life. He was still flirty as all hell around Cas, though, because that’s just how Dean was. And he still insisted on paying every time they went out on not-dates, even if it put a bit of a dent into his wallet, because Cas’s part-time job at the local Gas ‘N Sip didn’t pay nearly as well as the garage, and Bobby’s theater didn’t pay either of them at all. But mostly, when they were together and not actively working, they just focused on getting to know each other. </p><p>It was a slow process. After two weeks of regularly hanging out, Dean still didn’t know where Cas lived, because Cas would only ever let Dean drive him as far as the theater instead of taking him all the way home. Cas only mentioned his family in passing, and seemed to instantly regret it every time he did. But it wasn’t like Dean had any right to complain. He bragged about Sam practically every chance he got, but he never talked about his mom and dad, even when Cas was sitting with him in the garage John had opened or outside the house Mary had bought. Dean also had very limited experience with having friends, other than Sam and some casual school acquaintances. He didn’t know what was normal for two people to know about each other a month after meeting. So he took what he could get and didn’t begrudge Castiel what he wasn’t ready to share.</p><p>One Sunday morning, a few weeks before Christmas, Dean and Cas were sitting in the back office of the auto shop. Cas was lounging in a swivel chair, wearing his trench coat open over work clothes (his shirt today said “Orgasm Donor” on the front and “Ask for your Free Sample” on the back), and sifting through a box of Dean’s cassette tapes. Dean was supposed to be balancing the books, but he was mostly just staring at his dad’s ledger hard enough to give himself a headache. The downside of spending more and more time at the theater these days was that he spent considerably less time at the garage, and each week it got harder for him to turn his brain back into business mode. And the worst part was that he could always turn over this responsibility to his employees, but Caleb had been trying to usurp the garage from Dean since before his dad died, so hell if he was gonna make it any easier for him.</p><p>“Fuck it, if I look at this any longer, my head’s gonna explode,” he muttered, tossing the book aside on his desk and leaning back in his chair. “Any luck over there?” </p><p>Cas glanced over at him, then returned to frowning in confusion at the tape in his hand. “Is ‘I Love You Mary’ the album or the band?”</p><p>Dean’s eyes widened, and he lunged forward to snatch the cassette out of Cas’s hands. “Neither. No, that one is. Not for casual listening.”</p><p>Cas turned his confused frown on Dean, tilting his head. “Why not?”</p><p>Dean looked down at the tape in his hands and gently ran his thumb over the mixtape title Sharpied on in his dad’s jagged handwriting. “It’s just. Personal, okay? Pick something else.” He opened his desk drawer and put the tape inside. When he looked back up, Cas was still watching him, his eyes narrowed and a little sad.</p><p>Dean sighed, feeling his face grow hot, but he forced himself to maintain eye contact with Cas as he explained, “My dad made that tape for my mom, like, a million years ago, okay? It was his way of telling her he was in love with her. She used to play it for me and my brother when we were kids, before she.” He swallowed, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Anyway, it’s in there kinda symbolically, so can you just pick another tape to listen to, please?”</p><p>Cas gave him a small, apologetic smile, and then nodded and went back to flipping through the box on his lap. “How about ‘The Song Remains the Same?’”</p><p>“Oh, yes, man, Zepp! Now we’re talking!”</p><p>Dean was beyond grateful that Cas had agreed to change the subject before their conversation got too emotional, but he also had to admit it had felt kind of nice to talk to someone other than Sam about his mom and dad. Before he could think better about it, he pulled open the desk drawer again, took the mixtape out, and slipped it into the duffle bag lying open at his feet. Maybe someday, he could even get himself to listen to it again. Driving through the Kansas countryside in his baby, blasting his mom’s favorite songs with Cas in the passenger seat. He thought he’d like that.</p><p>While Cas struggled to figure out the stereo in the corner of the office (“I can do it myself, Dean,” he’d said when Dean had offered to teach him how it worked two weeks ago, and then had repeatedly proven that he in fact could not), Dean reached across his desk to flip on the TV. There was nothing good on this early on a Sunday, but even the Channel Five news was a better distraction from the work he was supposed to be doing than just waiting for Cas to get the music playing.</p><p>The current story was an interview from yesterday afternoon with the newly re-elected mayor of Lawrence, who was talking about his thoughts on gun control (most of which boiled down to “we don’t need any”). Dean wasn’t a huge fan of the guy (he’d voted against him twice), but he wasn’t really a fan of politicians in general, just out of principle, so that didn’t exactly mean much. Cas, he’d learned over the last month, was one of those people who liked to believe the best in politicians right up until they royally screwed him over, which was why Dean was very surprised and even more confused when Cas turned away from the stereo and spat at the TV, “That <em> assbutt. </em>”</p><p>Dean spun in his chair to give Cas an incredulous look. “I’m sorry, try that one more time for me. Did you just say <em> ass butt </em>?”</p><p>Cas immediately looked down at the cassette tape still clutched in his hands, embarrassed. “My apologies. I don’t usually use that kind of language.”</p><p>A laugh startled it’s way out of Dean. “Cas, buddy, that is not language. I’m not even sure it’s a word. Do you really hate the mayor that much?”</p><p>Cas glared up at the TV again. “We do not get along well, no.”</p><p>Dean raised an eyebrow. “Wait, are you trying to tell me you know the mayor personally?”</p><p>“He’s my oldest brother.”</p><p>Dean scrambled to shut the TV off so that he could give this new information his full and undivided attention. “Michael Krushnic is your <em> brother </em>?”</p><p>Cas made a face like he’d bitten into something sour. “Unfortunately.”</p><p>“<em> Huh. </em>” Dean sat back in his chair, unable to stop staring at Cas like he was looking at someone entirely new. He was dimly aware that he was probably finding this a lot funnier than it actually was, but he couldn’t stop. “So that’d be. Castiel Krushnic then?”</p><p>Cas turned his blue-eyed glare on Dean. “No. Just Castiel.”</p><p>“Right, cause that’s your stage name,” Dean remembered, nodding thoughtfully. “I guess that’s why you never let me drive you home, though, huh? Bet you live in some mayoral mansion, am I right?”</p><p>“It’s not a mansion.” Cas turned back to the stereo and finally fit the Zeppelin tape in. “But it is. Large. And recognizable, so. Yes.”</p><p>Dean stifled a laugh. “Any other celebrities in your family you feel like telling me about?”</p><p>“Rock and Roll” started to play over the stereo. Cas turned the volume down so it was more background music than anything and then reclaimed his chair across the desk from Dean. He frowned thoughtfully for a moment, apparently considering Dean’s question with total seriousness, then said, “My brother Gabriel is a fairly well-known comedian.”</p><p>Dean mentally ran through the list of comedians he was aware of. “Not. Gabriel Collins?”</p><p>Cas nodded. “Collins was our great-grandmother’s maiden name. Gabriel didn’t want his comedy to be associated with Michael’s politics.”</p><p>“Gee, I can’t imagine why.”</p><p>Cas frowned like Dean had said something particularly confusing that Cas needed to help him clarify immediately. “It’s because Gabriel’s comedy is vulgar and quite left-leaning, whereas Michael doesn’t believe billionaires should pay taxes.”</p><p>“Yeah, no, Cas, I’m aware. I was joking.”</p><p>“Oh.” Cas glared at the TV again, even though it no longer showed his brother. Dean didn’t dare break the silence that had fallen between them. He had a feeling Cas had more to say. “Out of all my siblings, Michael is the most like our father. Stubborn. Very set in his ways. Cares more about his work than his family.” Cas tore his gaze away from the television and glanced briefly at Dean before looking down at his lap. “When he was elected the first time, I was still in college, in New York. I planned to stay there after I graduated, but the job market at the time didn’t exactly agree with me. And Michael was so damn smug when I showed up back in Lawrence.”</p><p>Dean searched for something to say, but he’d never been very good at these kinds of deep talks. “What about your other siblings?” he prompted gently, not sure if the question would make things better or worse.</p><p>Cas sighed. “Gabriel’s always been something of a drifter, so he comes in and out. He and Michael don’t get along, either, but at least Gabriel has a somewhat steady job, so Michael sees him as somewhat less of an embarrassment to the family. And then my other brother, Raphael—”</p><p>“Like the ninja turtle, sure,” Dean muttered, unable to help himself. </p><p>Cas ignored the interruption. “Actually, I don’t think any of us is exactly sure what Raphael does, but he seems to have some sort of steady income. He pays Michael rent, anyway, but he never even left home. I think he’s hoping to buy it from Michael someday.”</p><p>“This is your family home, though?” Dean asked. “But Michael owns it? What about your dad?”</p><p>“He left,” Cas said simply, then continued with his original train of thought as if Dean had never asked. “My sister was the only thing that made living in that house bearable, and she moved out three months ago to open a nightclub in Vegas. So I’m sure you can see why I prefer to spend my time with you.”</p><p>Dean nodded, trying for a reassuring smile. “Well, no worries about that, Cas. I like hanging out with you, too.”</p><p>It wasn’t until Cas smiled warmly back at him that Dean realized how upsetting his frown had been. Cas’s neutral expression was solemn at best, but there was a difference between “borderline emotionless” and “undeniably<em> sad </em>,” and Dean decided that if he had one true purpose in his life, it was to do whatever he could to keep Cas from ever looking that sad again.</p><p>So, he gave Cas a wink and reached across the desk to pick up his ledger again. “All right, now, why don’t you go turn the music up before we miss the majesty that is ‘Rain Song,’ and then you can help me see if we can make heads or tails of all this.” He settled back in his chair and flipped the book open, trying to hide his smile behind its pages as Cas turned the volume up on the stereo.</p><p>Of course, Castiel seemed to be some kind of mathematical genius on top of all his other skills, so he only had to take one look at Dean’s financial statements to tell him what he was doing wrong. Two hours later, Dean filled in the last number he needed and closed the ledger again, this time with finality. “Damn, Cas, I should’ve asked for your help on this shit ages ago.”</p><p>Cas smiled proudly. “Always happy to help, Dean. Are you done with your work, then?”</p><p>“Yeah, I’m done,” Dean confirmed, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair and pulling it on. “You’re coming with me to the theater, right? Bobby’s gonna show me how to operate the fly system.” He stood to shut the stereo off and eject <em> The Song Remains the Same, </em> then returned the tape to its place in his box of cassettes. Then he fished out <em> Led Zeppelin II </em> and handed it to Cas. “We’re gonna play this one in the car, and you gotta <em> listen </em> to the words, all right? Poetic masterpieces right here.”</p><p>Cas was quiet as Dean zipped up his duffle and slung it over his shoulder, and he was quiet as Dean locked the office and then the garage behind them and led the way out to the parking lot, and he was quiet as they climbed into the car and Dean started her up. But there was a smile on Cas’s face as he ran a hand almost reverently over the passenger seat before he buckled himself in, and it only grew when they reached “Ramble On” on the album and he recognized some of the Lord of the Rings references. So, mission accomplished, as far as Dean was concerned.</p><hr/><p>When they pulled up to the theater, Dean killed the engine but made no move to get out of the car just yet. The parking lot was empty other than them, so Dean figured Bobby hadn’t arrived yet. He could afford to stall a few minutes. He looked over at Cas, who was squinting studiously at the Zepp II tracklist on the back of the cassette case. “Hey, Cas?” Dean said, one hand drumming absently on the steering wheel. “Can I ask you something? Something, uh, kinda personal?”</p><p>Cas made an affirmative noise, but it was another moment before he took his attention off the cassette case. “What is it, Dean?”</p><p>Dean knew it was probably none of his business, but the question had been bugging him since they left the garage. “Your brothers. Michael, Gabriel, Raphael. Aren’t those all, like… archangels? Like, from the Bible?”</p><p>Cas let out a deep, put upon sigh, like he’d been waiting for Dean to ask the question and it still exhausted him. Dean almost felt bad for asking, but before he could take it back, Cas explained, “My mother was a very religious woman. She wanted to name all her children after angels. My father, on the other hand, was more of the ‘Russian children should have Russian names’ opinion, even though our family goes back six generations in North America and he’s never even been to Russia. So they compromised as best they could. Gabriel’s middle name is Vladimir.” </p><p>“And Castiel, is that angel or Russian?”</p><p>Cas made a face, glancing down at his hands as he fiddled with the belt of his trench coat. “My… legal name is Russian,” he said slowly. He looked up at Dean without raising his head, so that his eyes looked extra big and blue under his long eyelashes. “Dmitri.” Dean blinked, trying not to let his surprise at the name show too much on his face. He had a feeling it didn’t work, because Cas turned away to face front again, staring absently out the windshield as he continued. </p><p>“My mother died in childbirth with my twin sister and me. So my father got his way in naming us, especially since Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael are about the only angel names anybody knows. A few months ago, right before my sister moved away, she and I got very drunk and stole a book about angels from Father’s study. She was… looking for a new name anyway, and I’d started playing with the idea of adopting a stage name since Gabriel did. So we made a deal. We would pick a name for each other out of the book at random and stick with whatever the other chose. Technically, <em> Cassiel </em> is the Angel of Thursday, but in her extremely intoxicated state, my sister read it as Castiel. Though, either way, I’m not sure which of us really drew the short straw on the new angel names.”</p><p>“Why, what’s your sister’s name?”</p><p>Cas looked over at him. “Lucy.”</p><p>There was a beat of silence as Dean tried to figure out if Cas was joking. But, of course, his face was as solemn and serious as ever, so Dean had to ask, “Lucy… is the name of an angel?”</p><p>Cas rolled his eyes. “It’s short for Lucifer,” he grumbled, clearly annoyed by this fact. </p><p>Dean burst out laughing and then quickly clapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, sorry. It’s. That’s your sister’s name, it’s definitely not at all funny.”</p><p>“Oh, no, she thinks it’s funny,” Cas assured him.</p><p>“Okay, good, cause that is <em> fucking </em> hilarious.” Dean beamed at him. “Your sister’s name is <em> Lucifer. </em>”</p><p>“Yes, and she loves it, so let that tell you everything you need to know about her.”</p><p>Dean reached over to put a hand on Cas’s shoulder, unable to stop grinning. “Hey, man, she sounds great. I’d love to meet her someday.”</p><p>Cas relaxed under Dean’s touch, and a soft smile painted his lips. “I’d like that. And I’ll have to meet Sam, of course.”</p><p>“Oh, sure. But maybe we shouldn’t get him and Lucy in a room together. Kid’ll say yes to <em> anything </em> if you get him drunk enough. Wouldn’t want any more devil-naming to go on while I’m not looking.”</p><p>Cas didn’t laugh at the joke, either because he didn’t understand that it was a joke or just because Dean wasn’t as funny as he thought he was (probably the first thing, though; Dean was fucking hilarious, thank you very much). Though, then, Dean had to wonder if Cas had even heard his last comment at all, because the next thing out of Cas’s mouth seemed to come from totally out of the blue. “Dean. Can I tell you something, if you promise not to tell another soul?”</p><p>Dean’s throat went dry. He felt suddenly certain that their conversation had just become serious and important in a way it hadn’t been before. He slowly removed his hand from Cas’s shoulder and instead placed it on the bench seat between them, so that his and Cas’s fingers were just touching. All he could say was, “Okay?”</p><p>Cas swallowed, looking like he wanted to avert his gaze, but his eyes never left Dean’s. “That day we met, when you found me reading in the green room? I had been considering quitting the show. I was going to talk to Mr. Singer about it before he closed up for the night.”</p><p>Dean frowned. “What? Why?”</p><p>“Because my sister was gone, and my brothers were—insufferable. I was going to leave home and take my chances in New York again, even if I ended up penniless on the street. Living with Michael and Gabriel and Raphael again, it just. It made me realize that I had questions. That I had doubts. I didn’t know what was right and what was wrong anymore, mostly because my family’s ideas on the subject seemed to differ so from my own. I didn’t know who I was when I was with them. And I wanted to know who I was again.”</p><p>“And. And then, what changed?” Dean asked hesitantly, his voice a gruff whisper. He wasn’t sure what he wanted the answer to be.</p><p>“And then, I met you.” Dean’s breath caught in his throat as Cas moved his hand half an inch and closed his fingers over Dean’s. “You know, my name on the cast list is Dmitri Krushnic. The other actors, and Ash and Bobby, they all call me Dmitri or some variant of it. But you were friendly, and. And handsome. And new. And I wanted you to like me, because I was me, not because I was an actor or the mayor’s brother or any of that. So when you asked for my name… I’d never used it before. The name Lucy chose for me. But I wanted to be someone else for you. And as soon as you called me Castiel… As soon as you called me <em> Cas </em>… I knew that was who I wanted to be.”</p><p>Dean let silence fall between them as his brain floundered for an appropriate response. The part of him that liked to stroke his own ego and make a joke out of anything emotional wanted to say, “You thought I was handsome?” The part of him that John Winchester had taught to hate himself wanted to say, “I don’t know, Cas, that’s a little gay.” But he bit down hard on both those instincts and forced himself to take a breath and think before he spoke. </p><p>“I’m real glad you stayed, Cas. I like you just the way you are.”</p><p>Cas didn’t respond, but his grip on Dean’s hand tightened just a bit, and some of the intensity faded from his eyes. Dean allowed himself a smile, then took another breath. <em> Okay, chick flick moment over. </em> “Thanks for telling me all that. You know, I was starting to worry you were some kind of emotionless tool.” </p><p>“I’m not a hammer, Dean.” Cas glared at him, but Dean thought he caught a tiny spark of amusement in his narrowed eyes.</p><p>Still, he backed off a little bit more, giving Cas’s hand a squeeze of his own. “Yeah, no, I know.” He tried to apologize with just a look, even though he wasn’t sure he’d actually offended Cas at all. For some reason, he couldn’t even think about saying the words aloud. Dean had never been good about all this “talking about your feelings” shit, and he’d already done kind of a lot of it today.</p><p>But thankfully, Cas didn’t look mad or upset. His eyes were as open and innocent as ever, his face smooth and impassive as he regarded Dean. Dean became aware that there wasn’t a whole lot of space in the front seat of his car, and he and Cas were already both sitting pretty close to each other, their seatbelts undone, their hands clasped together. Dean had unconsciously slid closer during the course of their conversation. He could kiss Cas if he wanted to, almost effortlessly, if he just leaned forward and closed the remaining distance between them.</p><p>“Dean,” Cas murmured, drawing Dean’s attention to his lips as if it hadn’t already been locked there. </p><p>“Yeah, Cas?”</p><p>Cas didn’t say anything else. But he shifted his hold on Dean’s hand, readjusting so that their fingers linked together. And then, he slowly leaned forward, his eyes fluttering closed, his lips just parting. Dean’s heart was racing. Every instinct he had was telling him to pull away, telling him to stop this before it went too far, telling him that he was happy having Cas as a friend and if he tried to make them be anything more, he risked losing what they already had.</p><p><em> Fuck that </em>, he told himself, and closed his eyes.</p><p>Suddenly, there was a sharp knock on the driver’s side window, and Dean sprang backwards so fast he hit his head on the roof of the car. He immediately let out a string of increasingly vulgar curses, trying to ignore the hot blush steadily creeping up his neck and the throbbing of his head as he yanked his hand out of Cas’s and moved to roll the window down. “What?” he snapped.</p><p>Bobby Singer leaned down to stare judgmentally at them through the window. “Is there a reason you boys have just been sitting here in the parking lot for the last ten minutes?”</p><p>Dean’s mouth opened and closed, but he couldn’t even start to find the words to explain himself without knowing how much Bobby had seen. And then he felt stupid for being embarrassed about it at all. He was a grown-ass man. There was nothing wrong with him kissing another grown-ass man in his own damn car. And they hadn’t even kissed!</p><p>“Hello, Mr. Singer,” Cas said, leaning around Dean to wave through the window. Dean was even more embarrassed, and also a little bit annoyed, that Cas looked totally put together, without even a hint of blush coloring his cheeks. “We were waiting for you to arrive before we went into the theater.”</p><p>Bobby just stared at Cas for a moment or two, then looked back at Dean, who immediately started taking a lot of interest in making sure the parking brake was adequately engaged. Bobby sighed. “All right, well, I’m here now, so come on in, I guess,” he said, and then set off towards the theater doors, grumbling to himself.</p><p>Dean closed his eyes, letting out a sigh of relief as his heart rate started to slow back to normal. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Sorry about that, Cas.”</p><p>He wasn’t sure what exactly he was apologizing for. That Bobby had interrupted them? That Dean hadn’t been able to own up to what they’d almost done? That they’d almost done it? He didn’t know, but he still felt like it had to be said. A few moments ago, he’d wanted to kiss Cas more than he’d ever wanted to do anything in his life, but now… </p><p>He couldn’t help thinking that Bobby’s inopportune entrance might have been the universe trying to tell him something. He and Cas were still getting to know each other. They were just starting to open up to each other, about their doubts, about their lives. Dean had never had a friend before like he was starting to have Cas. He couldn’t lose that now, not for anything.</p><p>And Cas must have felt the same way, because he didn’t try to kiss Dean again, or even say anything about the fact that they almost had. He just picked up the <em> Led Zeppelin II </em> cassette case from where it had fallen to the floor in front of the seat and placed it atop the dashboard, reverently, like he was leaving an offering on an altar. And then he got out of the car, leaving Dean sitting there alone.</p><hr/><p>Apparently there had been some sort of miscommunication the last time Dean and Bobby spoke.</p><p>Bobby had stopped Dean on his way out of the theater the night before and said, “Stop by tomorrow so we can go over the fly system for the angel’s last scene.” (No one ever called Cas anything to Dean but ‘the angel,’ which made Dean wonder if Cas had made some deal with everyone else to help him keep ‘Dmitri’ a secret, or if the crew guys just liked to mess with him). Dean had said, “Okay, sure, he’ll probably be with me anyway.” To which Bobby had said, “Better to test it without him first, though.”</p><p>Dean had understood this to mean that, understandably, Bobby would teach Dean how the fly system worked (he’d operated the one in KU’s theater a few times, but it was always good to get a refresher in a different space just in case the specifics differed), they’d test it with Dean or one of the other techies strapped in to make sure everything held right, and then they’d turn it over to Cas to rehearse a few times before putting it into the context of the scene.</p><p><em> Bobby, </em> on the other hand, had apparently thought his words had clearly implied the message, “Don’t bring Cas.” Dean only discovered this when he stepped inside the theater doors, the top of his head aching from where he’d hit it in the car and his heart still pounding from the memory of his and Cas’s almost kiss, and found Bobby waiting for him in the shadowed hallway. </p><p>“What the hell are you trying to pull, boy?” he asked, grabbing Dean by the arm before he could get very far.</p><p>Dean stared blankly at him. “Me? You’re the one who scared the crap out of me, knocking on the car window when Cas and I were just about to—” he quickly cut himself off, then finished lamely, “get. Out of the car…”</p><p>Bobby gave him a look that screamed, <em> Oh, yeah, that was real believable </em>, but he didn’t call Dean out on the lie. “What’d you bring him here for? I told you we’d test the fly without him first.”</p><p>Dean got the sense he’d missed an important part of this conversation along the way somewhere, because he had absolutely no idea what Bobby was so upset about. “Yeah, of course we will. But what’s the harm in him watching us test it? He’s gonna have to be the one strapped in eventually.”</p><p>“Yes, but he doesn’t know that, damn it!”</p><p>Dean’s insides froze to ice. “What?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.</p><p>Bobby, to his credit, at least had the dignity to look ashamed. “I’ve worked with him before, all right? And he’s got A Thing about heights. I didn’t think about it until I’d already had the idea for Clarence to fly in at the end, and it’d be such a <em> moment </em> that I couldn’t bear to part with it. Figured maybe, if you talked to him first. If you were the one to break it to him, I mean, then maybe he’d be able to get over his fears just for the last scene of the play.”</p><p>“And you didn’t think to tell <em> me </em> that?” Dean said incredulously.</p><p>“Well, I wanted to make sure the damn fly system worked right first; we haven’t used it in years.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah, cause that’s gonna make Cas feel all kinds of safe up there.”</p><p>“Look, boy—” Bobby started to say, but he was interrupted by the sudden loud slamming of a door up ahead. They both jumped at the sound and turned towards its source. </p><p>Something cold and sour formed a pit in Dean’s stomach. Cas had gone inside before him, he remembered. And that door slam hadn’t sounded careless or accidental. It had sounded angry.</p><p>He yanked his arm out of Bobby’s grip and called out, “Cas?” as he jogged down the hallway, not caring to see if Bobby followed. He found Castiel just outside the doors to the auditorium, leaning against the wall with his trench coat pulled tight around him like he was trying to hide the words on his t-shirt. His face was paler than Dean had ever seen it, and his eyes were wide and haunted, like he’d just stared into the face of the Devil. Dean almost didn’t recognize him.</p><p>“Cas, hey, you okay?” Dean hovered in front of him, not sure if he should get too close. “What happened?”</p><p>Cas glanced briefly at Dean’s face and then trained his gaze on the dusty floor beneath his feet. “You didn’t tell me.”</p><p>Shit. Dean had been hoping something had happened inside the theater, or even that Cas was upset with him about their interrupted almost kiss. But, no; clearly, Cas had overheard his and Bobby’s conversation, which had not been the way either of them had wanted him to find out about this whole flying thing. “I didn’t know,” Dean rushed to assure him. “Cas, please, I had no idea. I mean, I didn’t know that you didn’t know. Until <em> literally </em> twenty seconds ago, I had no clue they hadn’t told you.”</p><p>Dean felt like there was a fist closed around his lungs, making it physically impossible for him to breathe until he heard Cas’s response. And if Cas didn’t believe him, then the fist would crush him altogether. Finally, Cas gave a tiny nod, and Dean managed to gulp in some air. </p><p>“I don’t think I can do it,” Cas whispered, barely audible.</p><p>Dean put a hand on Cas’s upper arm and tried for a comforting squeeze. “Hey, of course. You don’t have to.” He didn’t know if that was true, or if he had any right to say it—Bobby seemed to really have his heart set on a flying angel, and it was his show; he could easily kick Dean off the crew for this, and he might even rather recast than reblock, even this close to opening—but it was clearly what Cas needed to hear. He relaxed under Dean’s touch and raised his head so that Dean got a clear look at his face. He was still too pale for Dean’s liking, and shaking slightly. Dean had never seen him like this, and if he never did again, it would be too soon. Cas scared was even worse than Cas sad, and even though it hadn’t been in any way Dean’s fault that Cas was like this, he couldn’t help but feel incredibly guilty about it anyway.</p><p>“Here, come here,” Dean murmured, taking Cas by both arms and steering him back towards the house doors. “Let’s get you sitting down before you fall over.” He pulled the door open with one hand and kept the other firmly guiding Cas by the shoulder until he was sitting down in the back row of the theater seats. “There, is that better?”</p><p>He realized he might have made a mistake when Cas immediately leaned forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the rigging above the stage. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he said softly. “I feel foolish for even thinking this way. I have no rational explanation for my fear, but I. I just can’t be up there, knowing I could fall to my death.”</p><p>“That’s the thing, though…” Dean moved into the next row and knelt, facing backwards, on the seat in front of Cas’s so that he effectively blocked Cas’s view of the stage. “You wouldn’t fall. And if you did, you wouldn’t get hurt. That’s, like, the whole point of my job up there, is making sure you stay safe.”</p><p>Cas gave him that narrowed-eyed frown as he considered this. “You’d be up there with me?”</p><p>Dean’s heart skipped. They were close enough to kiss again, he noticed even as he tried not to think about it. “Yeah, Cas, of course. Only time I wouldn’t be right by your side is when you’re physically hanging in the air, but I’m gonna make sure you’re strapped in nice and tight before that happens. You trust me, don’t you?”</p><p>Something cleared in Castiel’s expression until he looked like himself again; solemn, but not scared, his eyes open and innocent and blue. “Yes, Dean. Of course I trust you.”</p><p>God, Dean wanted to kiss him. He bit down on his lip hard to keep himself from doing just that. There was a time and a place, and this was neither. “Good. Then just wait here a sec.”</p><p>Dean figured Cas might feel better about the whole thing if he could actually see every aspect of it (fear of the unknown was at the root of every other fear, Sammy had told Dean once when he’d taken some psychology class at Stanford). So, Dean got Bobby and Ash back in the theater with them. He told Cas to move down and sit at the front of the stage where he could actually see the catwalks up above, since they had the house lights on and the stage lights off.</p><p>Then, for the next hour or two, Bobby took Dean and Ash through the motions of setting up and securing the fly system. As they worked, Dean shouted down to ground level, repeating everything Bobby said for Cas’s benefit. There’d be two other operators come show time that had already been trained with a different theater, but Bobby and Ash manned the lines now once Dean was strapped into a harness and buckled into the rigs to get it tested. The whole time, Dean kept up his running commentary of technical explanations and reassurances to Cas, proving to him that everyone there knew what they were doing, that the system wouldn’t fail, that Dean (and therefore Cas) was perfectly safe.</p><p>“So?” he said to Cas once he’d been unhooked and everything was reset. “Wanna give it a try?”</p><p>From the look on Cas’s face, Dean would’ve guessed that he very much did not, but he nodded bravely and stood from his seat. Dean led him up onto the stage and told him to take his trenchcoat off, then helped him fit the harness on over his clothes. “I’m gonna hook a couple carabiners through these loops here, and those are gonna hook onto the wires that’ll hold you up,” he explained as he went. His words seemed to be working as he’d meant them to, because Cas was calmer than he could’ve been, but Dean thought they were also helping him. Cas had chosen to put his trust in Dean. Reminding himself that he actually knew what he was doing made him feel more like he deserved it.</p><p>Once Cas was successfully harnessed, Dean started to lead the way into the wings and up the stairs to the catwalk. Cas slipped his hand into Dean’s and kept it there all the way up the stairs, which they took slowly and one at a time, Dean muttering reassurances the whole way. But when they reached the top, Cas froze, pulling Dean back when he tried to keep walking. Dean cut his gaze to Cas’s face; it was so pale it looked almost green, and the hand Dean held was shaking violently. </p><p>“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay,” Dean said hastily, turning to face Cas and placing his free hand comfortingly on his shoulder. “I’m right here. You know that, right? Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”</p><p>Cas closed his eyes, and Dean almost jolted with surprise when a trail of tears escaped them and spilled down Cas’s cheeks. Cas let out a little gasp that sounded like a sob. “I’m sorry,” he whispered immediately. “I’m so sorry, I—”</p><p>Before Dean could even think of something to say, Cas had unlinked his fingers from Dean’s and grabbed onto Dean’s shoulders with both hands instead. He gripped them tight enough to bruise, but Dean couldn’t even register the pain as Cas leaned forward and buried his face in Dean’s shirt, his body convulsing with sobs. Dean stood frozen for a moment, utterly unsure of what he should do. Then he hesitantly wrapped his arms around Cas and patted his back, muttering words of soothing nonsense for lack of anything better to do.</p><p>“I can’t do it,” Cas managed through his tears. “Dean, please, don’t make me do this.”</p><p>Dean felt his heart crack into two jagged pieces. He closed his eyes and pulled Cas closer, hugging him as tight to his chest as he could. He wanted to say something else, something that would calm Cas down, would make him feel safe again, but he didn’t think there was anything he could say. He didn’t think there was anything he could do except walk Cas down the stairs again and tell Bobby the flying angel scene just wasn’t gonna happen.</p><p>“This is so stupid,” he heard Cas whisper. “I shouldn’t be so scared.”</p><p>Dean pulled away so that he could look Cas in the eye. “Hey, none of that. You’re not stupid and neither is your fear, okay? Everyone’s scared of something. Hell, I could walk this catwalk with my eyes closed no problem, but put me on an airplane and I’m fucking scared stiff; tell me how the hell that makes sense. Sam, my kid brother? He’s scared of <em> clowns. </em> Kid’s never even met a clown, much less been traumatized by one. Shit doesn’t have to make sense for you to be scared of it, and there’s nothing wrong with you being scared. The only question is, what are you gonna do about it? Are you gonna walk down those stairs and tell Bobby you can’t do it and he needs to find another angel? Or are you gonna face your fear, trust that I’m not gonna let a damn thing happen to you, and fly?”</p><p>Cas blinked at him, eyes wide but no longer teary. Dean became distantly aware that that might have been the most words he’d ever said to Cas all in one go that didn’t have anything to do with the 327 four-barrel engine of his car. He started to wonder if he’d said too much and hesitantly removed his arms from around Cas. </p><p>But Cas grabbed his hands again before he could pull away. “I’m going to face my fears,” he decided. “I trust you, Dean.”</p><p>Dean jumped into action before Cas could change his mind. He kept hold of Cas’s hand as he led him to the middle of the catwalk. Then he let Cas take hold of his shirt instead as he hooked him in so that Dean could have use of his hands again. “All right, we’re almost done; I just need you to check the carabiners for me.”</p><p>Cas had his eyes closed; he shook his head. “You do it.”</p><p>“No, see, the whole point is for the person who checks them not to be the person who locked them in the first place,” Dean explained. “Just in case I screwed up. Which I’m not gonna do,” he added hastily when Cas’s eyes snapped open in fear. “Look, this locking sleeve twists closed over the gate so that it can’t flip open. If I’d done it wrong, any amount of pressure on it would open the carabiner, so you just gotta squeeze it for me. If it holds, you’re all set.”</p><p>Cas nodded and slowly removed one trembling hand from its grip on Dean’s shirt to reach down and squeeze the carabiner hooked to his harness. He relaxed slightly when the lock held and let go with his other hand as well to check the other one. “All good,” he confirmed.</p><p>“You can do this,” Dean told him. And if the smile Cas gave him, soft and trusting and fucking gorgeous, was anything to go by, Cas believed him.</p><p>Afterwards, when Cas was safe on the ground again and Dean had re-secured the wires up on the cats, he descended the stairs and met Cas center stage, ready with a whole speech poised on the tip of his tongue about how proud he was of Cas and how he’d always known Cas could do it and how they could face anything the world threw at them from now on as long as they stuck together. But before he could say any of it, Cas threw himself at Dean, wrapped his arms around him, and kissed him. </p><p>Soft pressure and the taste of stale coffee flooded Dean’s senses. For a moment, everything around him fell silent: the footsteps of the fly operators, the seductive sounds of drilling and nailing from the shop. All Dean could hear was his own heartbeat in his ears, pounding fast and hard. And then it was over; Cas was stepping away and everything came pouring back in. Dean realized, belatedly, that he hadn’t had the wherewithal to close his eyes.</p><p>He blinked several times in quick succession, trying to clear his head, but all he could think was, “holy shit” and “I would re-live teaching Sam to drive every day for the rest of my life if it meant I got to do that again” and “<em> holy shit. </em>”</p><p>Meanwhile, Cas was walking away, oblivious to the way he’d just wrecked Dean’s mental foundations like a category five tornado. And it wasn’t until he’d made it all the way through the theater and out the door that Dean realized two things. </p><p>In all the sudden shock and delight of being kissed by Cas, Dean had never actually managed to kiss him back. And he didn’t know what the kiss had meant, didn’t know how Cas felt, but he knew that no matter what, this changed everything.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi all! My supernatural phase faded and was replaced with an unhealthily intense Julie and the Phantoms phase, so sorry this has taken so long! Know that no matter what, I am not giving up on this fic, and I will have it finished by the end of the summer at the absolute latest. For now, I've got this chapter and one more already written, and then three more to write from there, but I can't promise when those will be up. Thanks so much to everyone who's read and commented so far, I appreciate you all so much!</p><p> </p><p>  <b> Warning there is sexual content in this chapter. It's brief and it doesn't go into too much detail, but it is there. </b></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“You know, Dean,” Benny whispers when Dean passes by the director’s table on his way to the wings. “If I’d’ve known you were such a miracle worker, I would’ve asked you to TD for me a lot sooner. And maybe tried fucking you a little longer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean rolls his eyes and flips Benny off as he keeps walking by. It’s been three days since Castiel’s meltdown, and each subsequent run of his flying scenes has gone more smoothly than the last. There’ve been no more disasters, every cue has been hit as scripted, and the costume department has even made some improvements to Cas’s angel get-up now that he’s more comfortable on the flys. Though Benny’s exaggerating because he’s a dramatic little shit, it really has been nothing short of a miracle, angel wings included. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Dean’s been at the helm for every second of it. He lets Cas trail behind him like a lost duckling while he sets up the fly system every night. He stands guard outside Cas’s dressing room while Cas and Meg do some kind of bullshit guided meditations together before fight call. He straps Cas into his harness a few pages before his cue, even though that part of the work is technically a little below Dean’s paygrade. And every time he does it, he has to fight not to get too lost in the ocean of Cas’s eyes, or let his hands linger too long on Cas’s waist, or feel too empty and alone as he watches Cas descend out of his reach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because Dean might still be in love with Castiel, but that in no way means Castiel is still in love with him. Meg Masters’s existence reminds him of that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Dean makes it to the staircase at the back of the stage right wing, Cas is waiting for him. He stands perfectly still at the foot of the stairs, a solitary lamp post lit aglow by blue work lights, with his eyes closed and his head tilted slightly to one side as he listens to the dialogue onstage. Dean hesitates a few feet away, taking the opportunity to just let himself look at him, without any of the restraint of social conventions that usually forces Dean to keep his glances short and innocent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel’s costume is made up of a white shirt and pants like some kind of hospital clothes. Overtop them, he wears a pair of fluffy white wings like a backpack, complete with a string he pulls to extend them to their full span once he’s hanging above the stage. Dean personally thinks they really make the look. It’s weird seeing Cas in costume and out of his usual suit and coat, but no weirder than seeing him in those dumb t-shirts Lucy left him all those years ago. Actually, Dean thinks he likes this look better than any other he’s seen. Cas fills out any outfit he wears nicely, of course, but even that trench coat was always a little too big for him, and he could never tie his tie quite right without help. Here, in hospital clothes and angel wings, Cas finally looks like he truly </span>
  <em>
    <span>fits</span>
  </em>
  <span>, in his clothes, in his own skin. He looks more comfortable and relaxed than Dean’s seen him in a long, long time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean shakes his head, physically knocking his thoughts back on track. He takes a louder than necessary step forward to announce his presence, and Cas’s eyes immediately blink open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean,” he whispers, a smile spreading across his face. “Is it time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean nods and swallows against his suddenly dry throat. He gestures wordlessly towards the stairs and then devotes too much attention towards fixing his headset further over his ear so he won’t keep staring at Cas’s bright, rare smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas leads the way up to the catwalks. They’ve progressed past the point of him needing to hold Dean’s hand on the metal staircase, but not so far that Cas doesn’t still get shaky unless he’s got one hand gripped tight to the railing and Dean at his back, ready to catch him if he so much as stumbles. Dean keeps his eyes trained on his feet and the stairs beneath him so he won’t be tempted to stare at Cas’s ass from behind. As soon as they reach the top, he cuts in front and heads straight to their spot in the middle of the catwalk, unhooking the carabiners from the rail so that he’s ready when Cas catches up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re both quiet as Dean works quickly and efficiently to get Cas strapped in. They’re usually quiet up here, with a scene playing out below them and Benny’s calls filtering in and out of Dean’s awareness through his headset, but tonight, Dean thinks he can feel the relative silence more heavily than usual. Like he and Cas aren’t just not saying anything, but are rather actively </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> saying things. Like there’s just too much they could say and not enough space between them to contain it all. Dean’s not sure what changed in the last three days for him to suddenly feel that tension now, but he thinks it might be because they’ve fallen into routine together up here in the near-darkness above the stage. There’s no danger anymore, no sense of urgency. Nothing left to distract them—to distract Dean—from everything they haven’t said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas checks the carabiner locks without having to be asked and then ducks his head so that his face enters Dean’s line of sight. “Dean?” he murmurs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean half-turns away and puts a hand to the intercom on his belt. “Castiel is on standby. I’ll wait for your call,” he lets Benny know, and then drops his hand back to his side. He keeps his gaze locked on the wall of wires behind the catwalk and silently prays that Cas will assume Dean hadn’t heard him and drop whatever he’d been about to say. Despite all their time together these last few days, Dean hasn’t had an actual conversation with Cas—hasn’t even really talked to him at all if it’s not about tech stuff—since they stood up here three nights ago and Cas said to him, “I could never stop trusting you,” with all the intensity he’d once put into, “I love you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he says anything even remotely similar now, Dean doesn’t know if he’ll be able to take it. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop himself from taking Cas’s face in his hands and kissing him right then and there, rehearsal and Meg Masters be damned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But all Cas says is, “I wanted to thank you again. And… apologize.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He says it quietly enough that Dean could probably still get away with pretending he didn’t hear, but his expression gives him away, his eyes cutting to Castiel in shock and offense almost before the words are all the way out of Cas’s mouth. “What the hell do you have to apologize for?” he says, and then immediately winces at how harsh he sounds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas meets his gaze steadily, only the hint of a frown tugging at his brows. “I know this—” he gestures vaguely at his harness and the catwalk around them—“isn’t exactly what you signed up for. And I think I must have made you uncomfortable the other night, which I promise was never my intention.” Dean opens his mouth to protest this, but Cas continues before he can get a word out. “The more I think about it, the more I realize how many mistakes I’ve made. I shouldn’t have put your name in for this project without talking to you first. I shouldn’t have just ambushed you outside the theater that first night, when you had no easy way of escaping my company. And I shouldn't have…” He pauses now and averts his gaze. Dean thinks he detects a hint of blush coloring Cas’s cheek, but it’s hard to tell with all the facial hair. “All those years ago,” Cas goes on. “I shouldn’t have pushed so hard.” He raises his eyes again, and they’re suddenly filled with all the intensity Dean was dreading to find in them. “I shouldn’t have let you go. Not completely. Not in the way I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean swallows again, his hands curling involuntarily into fists at his sides. He’s learned, throughout his relatively short life, that a man’s heart can break and then sew itself back together, only to be broken again and again. His heart has broken who-knows-how-many times, and all because of things this man has said or done to him, and things he’s said or done right back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somehow, “I shouldn’t have let you go” hurts so much worse than “I never stopped trusting you.” Hurts more, even, then, “This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith” ever did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly unable to stand their proximity, Dean stumbles back a step and then turns around, putting his back to Cas. He hunches over the opposite rail, gripping it so hard his knuckles turn white. Below him, a couple actors he can’t recognize from this far away are engaged in a loud, passionate scene, the stage alight with movement. But Dean barely sees it, his vision blurring as his heart tries to beat its way out of his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean?” Cas says, behind him, louder than is probably smart up here. Dean hears the shuffling of feet and the clanging of metal as Cas tries to lurch forward, but of course there’s only so far he can go harnessed in as he is. “Dean, are you—? What’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean turns his head just in time to see Cas tugging frantically at his carabiners, trying to figure out how to untwist the locking sleeves that keep him strapped in. “Hey, hey, hey, what the hell are you doing?” Dean hisses and practically lunges across the catwalk, his previous distress forgotten in lieu of this much more immediate concern. He grabs Cas’s hands without thinking and moves them off the carabiners, then frantically checks that the locks are still in place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, Cas,” he breathes, his heart racing now for an entirely different reason. He steps back out of Cas’s personal space and runs a trembling hand through his hair, barely noticing when the motion knocks his headset off his ear. “Don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> that. God, you’re gonna give me a fucking heart attack.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas says nothing, and for a long minute they both just stand there in silence, both trying to catch their breath. Dean feels stupid for freaking out, since clearly all it accomplished was getting Cas to freak out. And standing as they are, seventy fucking feet in the air, in the middle of a performance, now is </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> not the time for either of them to be freaking out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it’s dark up here, and the tension between them is so taut Dean is afraid one wrong move from either of them will cause it to snap. Standing up here, his emotions already running high, Dean feels more vulnerable than he usually allows himself to feel. So the words are out of his mouth before he gets any sort of chance to think about them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, Cas, you didn’t fucking let me go, okay? You left. I made you leave. It wasn’t your fault. And, you know, maybe it hurt, okay? Maybe it hurt a whole fucking lot. But you know what? You can’t beat yourself up about this. It was five years ago. You’ve moved on… I’ve… moved on.” He inhales sharply and doesn’t let himself look away. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If you keep steady eye contact, he won’t know you’re lying</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t ready for you. I didn’t know how to be the person you wanted me to be. And yeah, you pushed, but I shoved back. I was cruel to you and you didn’t deserve that, but you were right about me, about Sammy and my dad, that I don’t owe them my whole life. I did figure that out eventually. Hell, I mean, I’m here, aren’t I? And you were right when you said I needed to get out of Lawrence and you were right when you said New York was exactly my kind of town and basically you were right and I was wrong pretty much all the fucking time. So don’t you dare feel sorry for telling me what I was too afraid to hear. Don’t you dare apologize to me. I should be apologizing to you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean doesn’t know the last time he’s talked this much, but the words just keep spilling out of him. “But look at you, Cas, </span>
  <em>
    <span>look at you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You’re living the dream up here. You have everything you ever wanted. And I’m—I’m doing just fine these days too. It all turned out for the best.” He tries valiantly to pretend his voice doesn’t crack on that last part. “So let’s just agree to leave the blame in the past. Ancient history.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence falls, and Dean breathes heavily into it, his throat and chest both tight. Cas, motionless throughout this entire monologue, reaches out, as though to touch Dean’s wet cheek—which, shit, when did he start crying?—but at the last second settles his hand on Dean’s left shoulder, fingers splayed, gentle as a feather. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he gets the chance to continue, Benny’s voice rings out from below, echoing calmly around the theater like the voice of God itself. “Hold please, everybody.” And then, a moment later, unmagnified by the God mic but no less audible: “WINCHESTER!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Dean jerks out of Cas’s grasp and spins around, scrambling to fit his headset back on as he looks over the catwalk and catches sight of Benny stomping through the house towards the stage. “Sorry, man, sorry, sorry, I’m here,” he rambles into the mic, painfully aware of Cas’s eyes on his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened? Is Castiel all right?” Benny demands through the headset. He stops at the edge of the stage and shields his eyes to peer up at the catwalks. Dean knows the lights are much too bright for that trick to actually work, but he feels uncomfortably </span>
  <em>
    <span>watched</span>
  </em>
  <span> nevertheless. “I called the cue, like, fifteen times and you didn’t answer. Claire said you two were just standing there; she thought the angel freaked out again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean winces and cuts his gaze to the stage right wing, where he can just see Claire and Alex shamelessly watching him and whispering to each other. “No, Cas is fine, we just—it’s my fault. I wasn’t on headset. He’s ready now. Sorry to hold us up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence that follows is judgmental as only Benny can make it, and Dean automatically tenses, waiting to be shouted at or worse. He swears he can feel dozens of pairs of eyes on him, Claire and Alex and Benny and Jody and all the actors hovering around the stage all staring at him like he’s some kind of traffic accident, none of their gazes more piercing than Cas’s. But when Benny finally speaks again, all he says is, “All right everyone, we’re going back to fly cue forty-two. Standby Castiel, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean sucks in a desperate breath and forces himself back into tech director mode. He doesn’t look Cas in the eye once as he checks the carabiners one last time and then sends him off the catwalk at Benny’s next cue. After Cas has said his dialogue, and the curtain has fallen closed, techies on the stage below unclip Cas from his harness, and the wires rise back up to meet Dean’s waiting hands. For a moment or two, he just stands there, holding the carabiners in loose fists. If he closes his eyes, he can even sort of pretend that the lukewarm metal is actually Castiel’s warm hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean,” Benny’s drawl comes through the headset. “When you’re done up there, Jody and I need to see you, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean lets out a sigh and clips the carabiners to the rail. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chewing out he receives from his director and stage manager isn’t actually as bad as he expected it to be. They don’t fire him, anyway. They don’t even take him off the Castiel-fly detail, which he doesn’t realize he was scared of until it doesn’t happen. He does, however, get a strong vibe from both of them that his punishment would be a lot worse if they weren’t this far along in the process, or if he and Benny weren’t friends, or if he wasn’t otherwise damn good at his job. He assures them with all he has that nothing like this will ever happen again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course when he turns away from the director’s table, the very first thing he sees is Cas standing center stage, watching him. Cas’s wings are fully extended, stretching out behind him at least five feet in each direction. Under a halo of stage lights, his eyes almost glowing, they’re so damn blue, he looks more like an angel than ever. Dean lets their eyes meet, knowing that he’s not going to be able to indulge himself much longer. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ancient history</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he told Cas, and he meant it. If Dean’s stupid feelings are going to distract him from doing his job, then he needs to work even harder to push them down. So he’s going to give himself a few seconds to stare all he wants, and then he’s going to walk up to that stage and tell Cas that if they’re going to truly leave the past in the past and be friendly again, then they have to keep their interactions purely professional. It’s what’s best for them both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he starts making his way through the house towards the stage, Dean feels like he’s walking in slow motion. His surroundings—Benny and Jody in a huddle behind him and the actors waiting in the audience for their next instructions and the costume people hovering over Castiel’s shoulders, fiddling with the mechanism to make his wings retract—might as well not exist. The sights and sounds around him fade farther into obscurity the closer he gets to the foot of the stage, to Cas.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But about halfway there, the illusion breaks and Dean stumbles to a stop. The costumers have gotten the wings working, and when the fluffy white limbs fold into themselves on Cas’s back, they reveal an angry woman in a snowsuit and penguin slippers stomping forward from the wings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What in the devil’s name was that, Clarence?” Meg shouts, probably loud enough that the whole theater can hear her; definitely loud enough that Dean and Cas both flinch. Dean just catches a glimpse of the fear and guilt that widen Cas’s eyes before Cas turns away to face his angry girlfriend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Meg,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “Let’s go back to the dressing room and talk about this in private.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Meg seems entirely undeterred by the fact that she has an audience. “You gonna be making a habit of this now?” She steps right into Cas’s personal space, glaring up at him, and Castiel has a good six inches on MegM, so it would be kind of funny if she weren’t so terrifying when she’s furious. “Missing cues, Clarence? Canoodling with the tech director in the middle of a goddamn show? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean winces and glances around self-consciously. Sure enough, everyone’s attention is locked on the confrontation, eyes either on Cas and Meg or on Dean. He feels his face grow red and hot, and he involuntarily curls his hands into fists, his embarrassment automatically manifesting itself in anger. But he stands his ground, doesn’t let himself get involved. This isn’t his fight, really, even if Meg seems determined to drag him into it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Plus, it’s not like he’s forgotten Meg’s threats from the other day. It’s better that he stay down on the floor in front of the stage than get close enough for her to make good on any of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Meg,” Cas tries again. He looks uncomfortable, with hunched shoulders and shifty eyes, but when he tries to steer Meg upstage, farther away from prying ears, she grabs him by the arm and pulls him back to center. Cas sighs, exasperated. “Look, not that it’s any of your business, but Dean and I. We didn’t—We were not </span>
  <em>
    <span>canoodling.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean’s blush only deepens. He wants to turn around and get the hell out of there before Meg and Castiel can do any more of this infuriating </span>
  <em>
    <span>talking about him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But part of him also kind of wants to see how this plays out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even if I believed that,” Meg snarls, pointing one finger in Cas’s face and the other in Dean’s general direction, “it wouldn’t change the fact that </span>
  <em>
    <span>you fucked up.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Fuck, and here I thought we understood each other here. The show comes first, Clarence. The show </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>comes first. Before me, before you, definitely before your little </span>
  <em>
    <span>boyfriend.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I might expect this kind of unprofessional behavior from the likes of Winchester, but never from you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean swallows, suddenly violently wishing that Meg’s accusing finger were pointing anywhere but at him, and by the look on Cas’s face, he guesses Cas is feeling much the same way. But there’s something else, too, something other than fear swimming in the ocean blue depths of Cas’s eyes. If Dean had to put a name to it, he’d call it guilt. Real, genuine, </span>
  <em>
    <span>apologetic</span>
  </em>
  <span> guilt. In fact, Dean realizes, Cas is looking at Meg how he’s only ever looked at Dean before. With all the pain and regret of knowing you’ve hurt someone you really do love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean has to remind himself once again that just because Cas wanted to work with him and talk to him again, it in no way means Cas still has romantic feelings for him. And just because Cas has a very publicized relationship with a flashy starlet, it in no way means it’s some kind of PR stunt. For at least two of the five years when Dean was busy pretending Castiel didn’t exist at all, Meg must have been there for him. And now, what is Dean doing? Wrecking the life Cas has built for himself, and why? Just cause he’s sappy and jealous?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this point, Dean feels like whatever happens next will be his fault. But before he can decide if jumping in will help or only make matters worse, Meg continues. She’s apparently forgotten about Dean, and maybe even about her little impromptu audience. All her attention is on Cas, and when she speaks, there’s a slight waver in her voice, and Dean thinks he can even see the glimmer of unshed tears in her dark eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t afford to get distracted. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> can’t afford for you to get distracted. God, you worry me half to death up there as it is. If something ever—” She stops, takes a sharp breath, and tries again. “I stuck my neck out to get you this role, Clarence, and next time you screw up I’m not going to be able to save you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas blinks. His mouth works a few times, like he wants to say something but can’t quite put his finger on the words. Finally, what comes out is, “Meg. I—I’m sorry, I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to hear it,” she cuts him off. “I can’t do this anymore. You’re better than this. He doesn’t deserve you, Castiel</span>
  <em>
    <span>.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Dean cuts his gaze to the floor as a twisted shiver runs through him. He’s never heard Meg call Cas by his real name in person before. And he doesn’t think he likes it. “And I’m not going to stand here and watch you throw your career away for him. You can figure your shit out on your own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean looks up just in time to see Meg stomp away back into the wings. The second she’s gone, the whispers start up around him, but Dean doesn’t pay the gossip any mind. He just watches Cas, who’s still standing alone center stage, looking dumbstruck and sad.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cas,” Dean tries, his voice barely audible even to his own ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can say anything else, Benny’s voice comes over the God mic. “All right, folks, show’s over. Everyone take five and then get in places for the top of Part Two. We do, in fact, still have another play to run.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The actors and techies alike grumble a half-hearted, “Thank you, five” and then slowly file out of the house towards the lobby and dressing rooms. Only Castiel doesn’t move an inch, and Dean doesn’t either, nor does he take his eyes off Cas, who’s still staring dejectedly in the direction his girlfriend (or, Dean supposes, ex-girlfriend now) went.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can someone go check on Meg, please?” Benny says over headset, and then Dean hears footsteps until Benny stands next to him at the foot of the stage. “Castiel?” he calls gently. “Do you need to be excused for the night?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Cas says immediately. He still doesn’t look back at them. “I’m ready to work.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>That night’s run of Angels in America: Part Two might just be the longest four hours of Dean’s life. Meg and Castiel are both perfectly professional throughout the run, hitting every cue and every line of dialogue without missing a beat. Luckily, they don’t actually have any scenes together. Off stage, Meg seethes in silence, while Cas is icy and robotic. He doesn’t say a word to anyone that isn’t a line in the script or a polite acknowledgement of an order from the crew. And each time Dean stands up on the catwalk to hook him into his harness, Cas keeps his mouth shut in a firm line and his eyes trained innocently on Dean’s shoes. He checks his carabiners without waiting to be asked and then steps off the catwalk as soon as Dean gives him the go ahead, like he’d rather be hanging in mid-air a few moments longer than be close enough to Dean to touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean doesn’t try to fight the awkward tension between them. He wouldn’t know what to say to break the silence anyway, so he just focuses on doing his job and giving Cas the space he so clearly needs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later that night, Dean paces a circular groove into the floor of his apartment, his mind reeling again now that he doesn’t have work to distract him from Meg’s words echoing in his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“He doesn’t deserve you, Castiel. And I’m not going to stand here and watch you throw your career away for him.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean can’t remember the last time he felt this guilty. For screwing up the run of the show and freaking out Jody and Benny. For almost costing Cas and him both their jobs. For prompting such a public, shitty-sounding breakup. Sure, he’s not Meg’s biggest fan, and of course, he wants Cas for himself, but more than anything, he wants Cas to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And when Castiel stormed out of the theater tonight the second he was released, he looked just about anything but.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Dean doesn’t think he can pace another step without literally wearing a hole through the floor, he pulls out his phone and hits the first contact on his favorites list. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did Cas do this time?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean glares at nothing in particular. “Damn it, Sam, I don’t just call you when I need something, you know. I am allowed to check up on my baby brother just cause I feel like it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A beat of silence. “So Cas didn’t do something upsetting today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean sighs and drops onto the edge of his bed, rubbing his forehead with the hand not holding his phone to his ear. “More like I did something,” he admits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam chuckles goodnaturedly. “All right, lay it on me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean sucks in a steadying breath. “No, you know what? I was serious. Before I start dumping all my shit on you, I wanna hear how you’re doing. How’s life? How’s the boss lady?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you referring to my girlfriend or my actual boss?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Either. Both. And you know, Sammy, I can tell when you’re making that bitch face at me, even over the phone. You know that, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not making a bitch face,” Sam says, which means he’s definitely making the bitch face. Dean huffs out a laugh, imagining it. Leave it to Sammy to get him laughing on the shittiest day he’s had in a while, just by existing. “And we’re all fine, thanks for asking. They’re both here, actually. Jess had some files she wanted me to look at over the weekend, so I told her to just join us for dinner. Oh, hey, Eileen’s telling me to switch to video so she can talk to you, too. Is that okay, or is this Cas thing something you want kept between us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean lets out a sigh as he considers this. Don’t get him wrong, Jess and Eileen are both great. He’s pretty sure the only reason Sam is happy being a paralegal and not an actual lawyer is because his boss is such a badass, and the only reason Dean’s not upset that Sam and Jess broke up after college is because Eileen is even more of a badass. They’re great women, and probably the only people Dean trusts to keep an eye out for his brother when he’s not there. But he already knows he’s gonna get a bunch of judgmental looks and long-suffering sighs from Sam the second he starts telling his story, so does he really want good advice he’s gonna be too stubborn to take from the two smartest women he knows right along with them? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers the look on Cas’s face as Meg was yelling at him, the heartbreak in both their eyes that Dean had, if involuntarily, caused, and decides that no, yeah, he definitely needs a woman’s perspective on this. “It’s fine, go ahead. She and Jess might be able to help, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls his phone away from his ear and accepts the video call when it flashes across his screen. Right away, seeing his brother brings a smile to his lips, if only because Sammy’s hair has somehow gotten </span>
  <em>
    <span>even longer</span>
  </em>
  <span> since the last time Dean saw him, and it appears either Jess or Eileen (or possibly both of them) has pulled it back into two braided pigtails, Pippi Longstocking-style. Dean tries to hold back his laughter and only mildly succeeds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah, make all the fun you want; it keeps it out of my face,” Sam says. His image goes shaky as he moves around, trying to set his phone up on the dining room table so that he can talk hands-free. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, cutting it would accomplish the exact same thing,” Dean teases.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s exactly what I told him!” a new voice says, and Jessica Moore appears in the frame, grinning at him. “Hi, Dean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jess,” Dean greets her with a sarcastic salute and a jokingly flirtatious wink. “Always a pleasure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam adjusts the camera so that the whole table comes into view, covered in stuffed file folders and what looks like the remains of a health-freak dinner Dean would never want to eat. Sam’s hunched over in one chair, with Jess on one side of him and his girlfriend on the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Eileen,” Dean says, holding his phone out farther in front of him so he can wave into the camera. When Sam met Eileen, Dean made a resolution to learn as much ASL as he could and then promptly got distracted from that goal. His skills are rudimentary at best, but they’re better than they were two years ago, and at least he’s learned to make sure his lips are visible on camera and he doesn’t talk too fast or too slow or at the same time as Sam, which was a frustratingly difficult habit to break, if he’s being honest. And he uses the few signs he knows, just to prove he is actually trying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam, on the other hand, has gotten such a good hang on the language that he can talk to Dean on the phone and sign an entirely different conversation to Eileen at the same time, a fact Dean is reminded of when Eileen says, “So, Sam says you’re having boy troubles?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it’s Dean’s turn to bitchface. “Those aren’t exactly the words I’d use,” he says, and then snaps, “I do actually know some ASL, Sam,” when his brother tries to surreptitiously sign, </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s a yes.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sam gives an innocent shrug, Jess and Eileen both laugh at him, and Dean seriously considers hanging up. “You all suck,” he mutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, sorry,” Eileen giggles, signing along as she talks. “Please, tell us what happened. We’re here to help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean lays back on his bed with a dramatic sigh, holding his phone out above his head. He explains, with halting words and a few scattered signs, the very basic version of his and Cas’s backstory (he’s sure Sam has already told Jess and Eileen most of the details, but Dean’s going to pretend he hasn’t just for his own sanity). Then, lying on his stomach because his arm got tired, he explains everything that’s happened between him and Cas in the last few weeks, his realization that he still has stupid feelings or whatever for Cas, and all the catwalk drama that followed, culminating in Cas’s girlfriend breaking up with him in front of half the cast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On the one hand, it’s not that I’m happy they broke up,” he finally concludes, “cause, you know, I’m not a </span>
  <em>
    <span>total</span>
  </em>
  <span> asshole, and Sam if you say anything to the contrary, I will never talk to you again. But on the other hand, this might be my only chance to get Cas back in my life again, even if it’s just as a friend. But on the other, </span>
  <em>
    <span>other</span>
  </em>
  <span>, hand, what the hell kind of friend would I be if I ruin his relationship and then reap the benefits? What if he was happy with Meg and I just destroyed any chance of him being happy ever again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t realize how long he’s been talking until he stops and finds that his mouth is dry. He swallows and then waves a hand half-heartedly. “Okay, that’s it. Advise away, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jess, Sam, and Eileen all exchange thoughtful glances. Dean braces himself for some harsh truths he knows he’s not gonna want to hear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should tell him how you feel,” Jess says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should definitely tell him how you feel,” Eileen agrees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam just shrugs. “What they said.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean glares at the phone. “Yeah, well, easy for you to say. I’m the one who’s actually gotta do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, Dean,” Sam says, “you know, the first step in that might be—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His next words are drowned out by a sudden knock on Dean’s apartment door. He sits up and peers outside his bedroom so he can see the front door. It’s just one knock, a single startling pound, so he almost manages to convince himself he imagined it. He starts to turn his attention back to his phone and ask Sam to repeat himself, but then there’s another singular knock, loud and sharp as a gunshot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, gimme a second, guys, I think someone might be at the door,” he mumbles as he heads towards the front hall. He honestly doesn’t expect there to be anyone outside, so the surprise hits him that much harder when he swings the door open to reveal Castiel standing on his front stoop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean stares, openmouthed. His phone falls to the floor with a clatter. Immediately, Sam’s voice comes through, flush with concern. “Dean? You good, man?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh,” Dean manages, still unable to take his eyes off of Castiel outside his apartment, back in his suit and trench coat like he’d never taken it off. “Yeah. Um.” He shakes himself out of his stupor and bends down to retrieve his phone. “Sorry, guys, I gotta go. Thanks for the help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hangs up before any of them can ask questions and then slowly straightens back up again, waiting until the last second to raise his head, like he’s afraid Cas will have disappeared while he wasn’t looking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Dean.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Heya, Cas. What, uh, what are you doing here?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>And how did you know where I live?</span>
  </em>
  <span> he almost asks before remembering that Benny is a goddamned traitor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas looks uncomfortable. His eye contact is as strong as ever, but Dean can recognize the tells; the way Cas squints at him and raises his chin like he’s trying to compensate for their already minimal height difference. His hands are curled into fists at his sides and almost hidden by the sleeves of his coat. He’s nervous, Dean realizes, and that makes Dean nervous. He slides his phone into his back pocket and then leans one hip against the doorframe, trying for a casual stance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas still hasn’t answered his question, so Dean gently prompts again, “What are you doing here, Cas?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas lets out a sharp breath and looks down at his feet and then back up at Dean. “I know you said not to apologize,” he begins, and there’s a slight tremble to his voice that makes Dean blink in surprise. “So I came here to thank you instead. For not quitting the show just because I was in it. And for helping me with the flying these last few days. I know tonight was… awkward.” He winces at his own word choice, but soldiers on. “But you were right that a lot has changed in the last five years, obviously, for both of us. And even though things are different, I. I still want you to be in my life, Dean. Even if it’s just as a colleague. Just as a friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean swallows, trying not to let his disappointment show. He doesn’t know what he expected Cas to say after coming all the way over here, or even what he hoped he’d say, but it wasn’t this. This is what he wanted, though, Dean has to remind himself. Cas, however he can get him. This is good. This is fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It just doesn’t feel fine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas clears his throat and finally breaks eye contact as he reaches into the inside pocket of his coat. “Anyway, I, uh. I wanted to return this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean takes the small plastic rectangle Cas hands him without thinking, but then it takes him a second or two of staring to actually recognize what it is he’s holding. Probably because he hasn’t seen or even really thought about this cassette tape since the day he gave it to Castiel, early in their relationship, as an opening night gift for </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a Wonderful Life.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The case is smudged and cracked at the corners from repeated opening and closing, but Dean can still clearly recognize his own handwriting in thin black Sharpie, detailing the carefully crafted tracklist on the back and “Dean’s Top 13 Zepp Traxx” on the front. Under the title, he’s written “To Cas, &lt;3 Dean” (he remembers agonizing for hours over whether or not to include the heart when he made this), but those words are smudged practically beyond recognition. It’s clearly well-loved, and this is just the case; Dean can only imagine the state of the actual mixtape inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drags his gaze away from the cassette and up to Castiel’s face. “Why are you giving me this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas frowns. “Well, I. I never gave it back after we—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean shakes his head and shoves the mixtape back at him. “Nah, man. This was a gift. You keep those.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Cas’s voice is small, but something like a grin tugs at his lips as he takes the tape back and returns it to his coat pocket. “Well, anyway. That’s all I came here to say, so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pauses meaningfully, staring into Dean’s eyes like there’s something he’s hoping to find there. He must not find it, because his face falls, and then he turns away, starting to head for the stairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean realizes belatedly that Cas was waiting for Dean to ask him to stay. Before he can convince himself not to, he calls out, “Cas, wait!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns immediately, his face alight with hope. And Dean swallows, suddenly speechless again. He considers saying, “Never mind” and going back inside and lying face down on his bed and screaming into his pillow. He considers inviting Cas in for a drink and pulling out the $600 bottle of scotch Bobby sent him three Christmases ago and finding out how many shots it would take for Cas to sleep with him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he thinks about what his brother said. His brother who’s in a happy relationship with a wonderful woman but also goes to work every day and takes orders from his ex and then invites her over for dinner after work because they’re still good friends even though she broke his heart half a decade ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You should tell him how you feel. You should definitely tell him how you feel.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And you know what? Tonight’s rehearsal proved that Dean and Cas can get through a whole show without saying a single unnecessary word to each other. If things get awkward and Dean has to let Cas go again, he can still do his job knowing at least he tried and then maybe he can actually move on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But right now? Cas is here and Dean doesn’t want to watch him walk away again and honestly, the more Dean thinks about it, the more he realizes he has </span>
  <em>
    <span>literally nothing to lose anymore.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn it, Cas, I missed you,” he breathes, and then just like up in the catwalks, the words are flowing out of him before he has even half a chance to run them past his brain. “There hasn’t been a single second in five goddamn years when I haven’t missed you and that includes all the times when you were standing right in front of me. I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t even know how to be happy without you around, man. I mean, I know I said I moved on, but, god. I can’t even make myself feel at home here because New York was supposed to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>our</span>
  </em>
  <span> home. I’ve been running around this city for two years working and drinking and kind of making friends, but more than anything, I spent all that time planning my life around how best to avoid you, and that was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” A slightly hysterical laugh escapes his mouth, but Dean can’t bring himself to care. “I don’t want to avoid you anymore, Cas. I want you in my life again.” His words hang heavily in the air for a moment; then he adds, “Preferably as more than friends, but at this point I’ll take whatever I can get, so I’ll understand if—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Dean can get another word out, Cas is kissing him, and if Dean were in his right mind, he might wonder when Cas closed the distance between them, or worry that they’re still standing in the open doorway of his apartment, where any of his neighbors could easily walk out onto the landing and see them. Except he’s definitely not in his right mind, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cas is kissing him,</span>
  </em>
  <span> something Dean didn’t think would ever happen again outside of his dreams, and Dean hasn’t been kissed at all, in general, in a long-ass time, so all his blood is a little busy rushing to his dick to give much attention to his brain right now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas’s beard is rough against Dean’s face, but that only prompts Dean to lean in closer for better access to his lips. He grabs two fistfuls of Cas’s trench coat and pulls him, stumbling, backward into the apartment. Cas hooks his thumbs into Dean’s belt loops and doesn’t let go or stop kissing him as he kicks the front door closed behind him. Immediately, Dean shoves him up against the wood and kisses him harder, nipping and sucking at Cas’s bottom lip like it’s pie-flavored.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas lets out a rumbling half-moan from deep in his throat, and Dean’s jeans grow significantly more constricting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need you,” he gasps into Cas’s lips. “Now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The few times Dean allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to sleep with Castiel again, he worried it would be slow and awkward, the years of space and tension between them getting in the way. But right away, they move like a well-oiled machine, as smoothly as a scene that’s been rehearsed a thousand times. They move in perfect sync like they never stopped. Cas shucks off his coat and jacket while Dean gets Cas’s tie undone, and then Cas kicks his shoes off and removes his belt, both of them darting in for desperate, open-mouthed kisses every chance they have.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As each item of clothing is added to the growing pile on the floor of Dean’s front hallway, he can’t help but flash back to another time, a bigger parlor in a bigger house, kissing a clean-shaven Castiel until they were both dizzy from it, working together to get Cas undressed and then Dean because Cas was always undoubtedly wearing more layers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as Cas has unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside, he goes for the fly of Dean’s jeans, but Dean doesn’t bother helping. He’s too distracted by the sight of Cas’s chest, muscular and tan and warm under Dean’s hands when he can’t help but run them over Cas’s abs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You,” Cas growls, leaning in to mouth at Dean’s neck as he fiddles with his zipper. “Clothes off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean gasps and nods. He has to reluctantly pull away to pull his t-shirt off, but Cas is making quick work of Dean’s pants now. He gets the fly down and tugs pants and boxers down to Dean’s knees in one swift pull. Dean thrusts his hips forward, biting back a moan as his throbbing erection brushes against Cas’s hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean doesn’t know the last time he was this hard, and neither of them is even fully naked yet. He needs to get Cas into bed soon if he doesn’t want to come before they’ve even done anything. But before he can suggest this, or even get his pants all the way off his legs, Cas is dropping to his knees.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, Dean doesn’t care that he’s standing in the middle of his front hallway with his pants around his ankles, his dick leaking pre-come before it’s even been touched, or that Cas still has his dress pants on even though he’d been the one complaining about Dean wearing too many clothes a minute ago. All Dean can do is bury his hands in Castiel’s tangled hair and gasp out a string of curses he doesn’t even hear as Cas takes his cock into his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, Cas,” Dean breathes, and then remembers he’s literally in own house and has no obligation to be quiet no matter what his neighbors think and moans again, louder, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Cas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grips Cas’s hair like a lifeline and rocks his hips back and forth, slowly fucking Cas’s mouth until he thinks he can’t take it anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then, just as he’s gasping, “Cas, I’m gonna—” Cas pulls his mouth away and Dean’s impending orgasm backs off just enough to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>incredibly</span>
  </em>
  <span> frustrating. “Cas,” he groans, in annoyance this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas looks up at him with a mischievous grin and goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>winks</span>
  </em>
  <span>, which almost does more for Dean than the actual blowjob. Cas stands and works on getting his pants off. Moments later, they’re kissing again, both finally, blissfully naked, and Cas wastes no time pulling Dean into the bedroom and shoving him down onto the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean lays back on his pillows, legs spread, the taste of Cas’s lips and his own dick sharp in his mouth, and stares up at Cas standing just in front of the bed with his beautiful body and his ruffled hair and his matching erection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come here,” Dean says, just short of begging. Cas gives him a rare, toothy grin that sends shivers of pleasure through Dean’s body, and then he obediently climbs on top.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean loses track of time, space, and reality as Castiel gently guides him to the hottest orgasm of his life. And then, after he’s flipped Cas over and returned the favor, he buries his face in his pillow, one arm flung across Cas’s chest, and lets himself breathe in Cas’s scent and just feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean,” Cas murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to Dean’s neck. “Do you need me to leave?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean makes a sleepy noise of protest and holds Cas tighter, like he’ll disappear if Dean lets go. “Stay,” he pleads.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas says something else, but Dean barely hears him, too physically spent and emotionally content, with Cas warm and solid next to him, to process the words before sleep claims him.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <span>Dean surfaces into consciousness slowly and lazily, his brain trying to pull him back into sleep a few times before it lets him be awake. Once he’s sure he’s not going to fall back asleep, he lies there a while longer with his eyes closed, trying to remember what he’s supposed to be doing today. His mind still feels foggy from sleep, and he has a strange sense of deja vu or something, like he knows he dreamed something the night before but can’t quite remember what. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bed shifts next to him, and Dean becomes suddenly aware of a presence at his side. His eyes snap open and he turns his head to find himself face to face with Castiel, curled in close next to him with his eyes still closed and his mouth hanging half-open. Dean stares at him, almost unable to believe what he’s seeing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not a dream then</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he tells himself as the events of last night slowly come back to him. Cas was really here. They really slept together. And then Dean asked Cas to stay, and he did. All night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean wouldn’t say he’s freaking out, but he can’t quite say he’s calm either. There’s still so much he and Cas haven’t talked about, so much they probably should talk about. And what if they moved too fast? What if this changes everything, but for the worse and not the better? What if by fulfilling his greatest desires, Dean has truly ruined any last chance he had of keeping Cas in his life? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop thinking so loud. I’m trying to sleep,” Cas murmurs sleepily, his voice even more gravelly than usual. A laugh startles its way out of Dean, breaking through the cold ball of panic that was starting to form in his chest. Cas smiles and blinks at him with half-lidded eyes. “Did you sleep well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, you, uh, you really wore me out last night,” Dean says softly. He turns onto his side so that he can face Cas better. They’re so close he feels like he has to whisper or he’ll pop the bubble keeping them safe from the rest of the world. “Did you, uh, did you have, you know, fun?” He inwardly cringes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas’s smile widens. “You made me feel very good last night, Dean. I hope I did the same for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah, fucking amazing,” Dean assures him. “Cas, I’m. I’m really glad you came over here. I know yesterday must have been rough for you, but at least something good came out of you and Meg breaking up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas still looks half-asleep, but even as his eyes fall closed, his brows knit together in a confused frown. “Meg and I didn’t break up,” he mutters around a yawn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean feels his insides freeze. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas rolls closer and tries to press his face into Dean’s bare chest, but Dean instinctively pulls away. Cas makes an annoyed sound of protest and blinks his eyes open. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean really wishes he could let himself appreciate how damn cute Cas is when he’s sleepy, but this isn’t just something they can avoid talking about. He suddenly feels cold all over, and a little sick to his stomach, knowing they’ve crossed a line they can never uncross. He slowly sits up and pulls the sheets up over his legs, suddenly feeling like he needs to be covered. “Cas,” he says sharply. “What do you mean you and Meg didn’t break up? I saw you. She cursed you out in front of the whole cast. What the hell was that if not a break up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas must realize that Dean is seriously upset because he sits up, wide awake now. “That was a fight,” he says carefully, “but then we talked after rehearsal and worked everything out. I even told her I was coming over here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you tell her you were gonna cheat on her with me?” Dean demands, and then has to swallow back rancid guilt. “Shit, Cas, you didn’t tell </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> you were gonna cheat on her. I thought. Damn it, I thought she’d broken up with you. I wouldn’t have slept with you last night if I’d known you still had a fucking girlfriend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas’s frown deepens, but his eyes are wide with something like fear. “Dean, it’s all right,” he insists. “Meg and I. We have… an arrangement. She sleeps with other people all the time. I haven’t yet, but only because there wasn’t anyone I wanted to, until you. I’m sorry I didn’t clarify the situation for you, but we didn’t do anything wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean puts his head in his hands and tugs at his hair, letting the pain cut through the panic fogging his brain. “Damn it, Cas,” he mutters. “If Meg finds out about this, she’s gonna turn my eyes into Christmas ornaments.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I personally think your eyes would make very nice ornaments,” Cas teases gently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cas,” Dean growls. “I’m not kidding around here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They might blend in with the tree, though. Both green…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cas,” Dean snaps, ready to be angry, but when he looks over at Castiel, all his fury fades in an instant. The light coming through Dean’s bedroom window is hitting Cas’s bedhead like a halo, and Cas is smiling, the curve of his shoulders relaxed, as he looks at Dean like he’s staring into the face of God. “You’re really not worried about her,” Dean realizes. “You don’t regret last night?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not for a second,” Cas promises and leans in to steal Dean’s lips in a kiss. Dean closes his eyes and savors the taste. “I’ll take care of Meg,” Cas promises, speaking against Dean’s mouth. “Don’t you worry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cas kisses him again and reaches under the sheets to stroke one hand down the inside of Dean’s thigh. Dean thinks he should probably protest, should still feel guilty, should tell Cas to stop so that they can actually have a mature conversation about what they’re doing here and what it all means. But he doesn’t.</span>
</p>
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